From Marshal To Guardian, Part Two: Reconciliation
by Derek Konrad
Summary: After his inexplicable physical-transformation and "crossing-over" to the world of Ga'Hoole, former TSA-agent Christopher Barnes Markson has faced a minor conflict that has followed his arrival; coming to the final understanding that he is stuck in this body, the ex-agent decides to offer his services: as of lately, there have been many anomalous occurrences in this avian world...
1. Prologue

**...And Part II of "From Marshal To Guardian" is now up and running!  
I know, I know; there has been a bit of a break since the final chapter of Part I, but that was mainly due to development issues and writer's block. Now that these are solved, the next _big_ chapter of the story will continue on.  
As a quick note for anyone doing any reviews, by the way: do not worry if you believe that a review you wish to post appears somewhat long - I actually appreciate when I receive longer and more perceptive reviews. At the end of the day, they are the ones that can give one the largest amount of inspiration.  
But enough of author's notes: most of you people are here to read the main story, right?**

 _ **I do not own the Guardians of Ga'Hoole series.  
** **I take all characters and organisations that do not belong to Kathryn Lasky as my own characters and creations.**_ _ **  
**_ _ **The Federal Air Marshal Service and the Transportation Security Administration are not my creations.**_

Prologue

 _PSRI Headquarters, Boston, Massachusetts, United States of America_

 _03:21, October 30, 2014._

 _Gregory Marsh, Director of the PSRI_

He decided to stay in the office for quite the after-hours on that night - even just thinking of leaving and having a sleep on the current situation already managed to upset his brain; instead of getting back to his wife and children, Marsh has determined in himself to remain in the agency's building, and closely read through the report Agent Fayer and his infiltration and reconnaissance team has sent from the "other side" - the place and topic that was, in this current moment, for the first time in many, almost countless years, actually has seemed to trouble him.

And this was all because of that _damn_ TSA-officer - Agent Markson and his stupid, regrettably-professional techniques of counter-terrorism.

The PSRI had it all planned out - they already forged an idea on how to get rid of the CIA-brat who infiltrated their facilities, but first things always came first: the recovery of the "Anomaly" was the priority, and that little precious was in the possession of Agent Markson at the time, back around the middle of the month of this October.

With a few hours of digging around government-personnel-files and mining through public-camera databases, some of the PSRI's technicians have claimed to have found some fruitful results - the position of the Anomaly since its latest relocation: it was picked up from a not-so-known charity-bookstore by some young girl, officially ID'ed later as "Anna Montgomery".

The original decision was to pick up - in reality, abduct - the kid right off the street, get the target-item from her, then leave her dead in an isolated section of any forest nearby, or maybe at the bottom of a lake - the executives did not care, and, if the authorities were going to get involved anyway, it was way more simpler to silence a voice that might bad-mouth the PSRI.

Nevertheless, the abduction-team was called off from the initial operation seconds before they would have been given the green-light - fortunately, an IT-geek has managed to uncover the info that the kid did not have the Anomaly - physically shaped as a particular book to the naked eye - in her possession anymore; she, apparently, as some bribed sources and assets told the agency, gave it away to her father - just days ago before her abduction-operation was almost conducted; it was sent by air-mail, and was too far away from the PSRI's reach to be intercepted.

By the start of October, it was already in Agent Markson's hands, sent by his precious little daughter - a definite pain-in-the-neck for Marsh, and the entire R&D section of their Boston office.

In just a short matter of days, the agency has set up another "snatch'n'grab" for the Anomaly, albeit this plan involved a lot more necessary civilian-casualties, and the risk of escalating into an international-incident - nevertheless, pulling a few strings has made the chance of the latter happening to be a highly negligible number.

Everything was to go by the numbers: six agents of different nationalities sent into Heathrow, weapons stashed in undetectable, thickly-coated lead container would block off the security's X-Rays, ready to board the plane and execute their plan; the two FAMS-agents identified before the flight commenced, and one of them was poisoned with a lethal dose of untraceable-chemicals, and the other one was continually tracked by a PSRI-operative until he boarded the plane.

Once the six agents were aboard the flight, it was supposed to be an easy little piece of cake - nonetheless, due to a potential case of overconfidence in the chain-of-command, both the on-field team, and the control-center has managed to make an almost unimportant, but still rather problematic mistake: after "breaking the tail" at the end of the terminal, an operative has not had the chance to forward a snapshot of Agent Markson, and did not give a physical description to the personnel who have boarded the plane; therefore, the on-field team was essentially left in the dark about their primary target, and would not have been able to identify the TSA-agent, even when one of them met him face-to-face.

This was the point where the critical issues and complications began to surface, as the team has soon found out that Markson was not a "first day on the job" type of a guy, and were practically _massacred_ by the professional agent - the day was supposed to be saved by the Homeland Security's branch once again, but, ultimately, this was not what came to be the ending of the story.

That ignorant Markson - probably and most likely not even realising that he has done it - has activated the Anomaly while everyone was aboard that plane; the most significant problem with this move was that the aforementioned object was _never_ supposed to have been used _outside_ of a heavily-controlled-environment, due to the reasons and effects it has had up there at thirty- or forty-thousand feet.

Naturally, when a temporary hole is _torn_ across the very fabric of reality and the universe itself, some laws on nature and science are, _funnily enough_ , kicked over - as seen on the plane, the laws of nature do not tolerate the occasion when someone tampers with them; an unparalleled and enormous electrical storm has followed, which has acted as a form of electromagnetic pulse-wave, and has, to state simply, killed every single bit of electrical power on the plane, along with the backup-generators - from that point on, everyone were as good as dead on that flight, as the object they were travelling in has essentially became a multiple-ton paperweight.

Although, not known first by anyone, not even the PSRI, Markson has somehow managed to survive the crash; and he has done this by "crossing over" to the other side of the "gateway" the Anomaly has created - the former word was coined by some of the PSRI's white-coats, and was defined as "the process of moving one's physical and mental being to an alternate reality that lay on the other end of the aforementioned gateway".

The incident was simply swept away as a random terrorist-attack to the general public and the international-news, and (other than the casual and always-present conspiracy-theorists) not many have decided to pay any additional attention to the event - and, by pulling some high-end strings and making a few transactions to a number of off-shore bank-accounts, the PSRI have managed to get their hands on the black-box, and successfully erased any traces of their direct presence or involvement in the incident.

Another attempt of the Anomaly's recovery has failed, but not extremely valuable lives have been lost in the agency's eyes: everything was supposed to be back in the category of "just another boring day at the office" at the PSRI; with the civilians deceased and Markson officially assumed dead - who, in the meantime, was expected to starve and die on his own on the "other side" - no one was able to talk.

But here was Marsh, taking his third pill that night to suppress his unceasing headache, staring at the written report Agent Fayer and his team have sent back to this world to inform the Director about their ongoing espionage-operations, and general situation - for the past years, no complications ever occurred, and even the minor ones could always have been (and _were)_ solved by an isolated-kill and neutralisation of a given subject.

However, this month, the news from Fayer were troubling, to say at the very least: despite preliminary planning and common sense, both the somewhere-above mentioned CIA-puppet "Agent Losold" and Markson have managed to overcome their chances and odds (the former being poisoned, and the latter being left to fend for himself with an unknown body, in an unknown environment), and have survived, having the risky-potential to expose the PSRI's existence and underground-motivations to any group they may have managed to get in contact with - particularly a form of civilised "acting-government" of the "other side", a group only known as the "Guardians".

Nevertheless, before Losold could have gave away crucial information to these "Guardians", or Markson, one of Fayer's operatives have managed to take him out with a well-practiced manner of professional discretion - or, at least, he was doing as described previously, but then the TSA-grunt came into the picture, and caused this assassin's - Kenneth Zwegger's - undeserved death.

Fayer's sources have reported from the "headquarters" or "central directory command" of these "Guardians" - known as the "Island of Ga'Hoole" - that he will re-task at least two or three of his infiltrators to keep a constant eye on Markson, and report back on any actions or activities he might take.

The full report, which also contained a short description on the assumed location of some kind of ancient library Marsh did not gave a single care about, had an additional extension at its very end: a question asking for the Director's command on what should be done about Markson.

The single sentence was read: "Should, in any circumstances, the subject, ex-TSA Agent Christopher Markson, be terminated on any given sight to avoid future complications that may be caused by his involvement and presence, or should the subject be left alive, observed, then captured for the arrangements of offering him a place in the lines of the PSRI's agents?"; subsequently next to this was an empty line, presumably for either of the two words "yes", or "no".

Above all the previous was a hastily-hand-drawn dotted-line, probably to signal the document's reader that this section of the report was to be cut off and returned on the next occasion when orders will be issued for the teams on the "other side", and sent by the already-mentioned method of "crossing them over".

Not even reconsidering the possibilities and potential outcomes for a moment, Marsh clicked a random pen he found laying around on his desk, and wrote not a single word, but a total of four - read "observe and leave untouched".

When he was done with this small but mentally-distressing job, he reached into his trousers' right-side pocket, retrieved his cell-phone, and swiftly dialled and called a specific number.

When the secure line for the call was established, Gregory spoke into the receiver without clearing his throat, which has made him sound like someone with a severe case of pharyngitis.

\- Oswell, is your hack into the TSA-database done yet? - a muffled, younger voice could have been heard from the other end of the receiver, however, even in the closest vicinity to him, no one could have understood the words that were spoken by the man called "Oswell", except for Marsh himself; after a few short seconds of listening to the response, Gregory allowed a grin to take the possession of his mouth, and spoke into the receiver - Nicely done, agent; set up a rendezvous with this "Samuel Broyles" for me for... midday, tomorrow, in the TSA HQ in Arlington. Forward me any further details and results to my Inbox - he ordered, then ended the call with a fast and way-too aggressive tap on his phone's touch-screen.

Director Marsh of the PSRI has leant back in his cheap office-chair, and prepared to light another one of his "stress-relieving" cigarettes - further damaging his already heavily-scarred lungs.

A plan was already set in motion; all that remained for him now was to successfully persuade Agent Broyles to join up with the PSRI - with a lie here and a bluff there, he could be almost effortlessly convinced that Agent Markson has died aboard Flight BR82.

Additionally, since Oswell took his liberties and proceeded to dig around in Broyles' educational-records, it turned out that the man was somewhat interested _and_ well-educated in Physics, and took up quite a large interest in Quantum-Physics about twenty odd years ago.

With these skill-sets, the PSRI may have just found themselves a fitting candidate - a lucky find that has, even though Marsh hated to think of this positively, could not have occurred without Markson.

For now, all the Director had to do was to wait for all the chess-pieces to pick their positions and arrange themselves on the board - the battlefield; once these preparations were done...

A form of shadow-war may have the potential to come.


	2. Good Ol' Agent Broyles

**Well, this chapter has took long enough - actually, way longer than I have initially expected. Maybe not the best chapter out so far, but, you know: it happens every now and then.** **Anyway, since I am running out of ideas on what I should fill out these author's-notes bits out...**

 **Might as well just go ahead with the chapter, I guess.**

 _ **I do not own the Guardians of Ga'Hoole series.  
** **I take all characters that do not belong to Kathryn Lasky as my own characters and creations.**_ _ **  
**_ _ **The Federal Air Marshal Service and the Transportation Security Administration are not my creations.  
**_ _ **Glock (Ges.m.b.H.) is merely just mentioned for the sake of the story, not advertised, nor promoted.**_

Good Ol' Agent Broyles

When he has first heard the news that Flight-BR82 has hopelessly plummeted into the Atlantic Ocean, Broyles did not do much more than sitting in the exact same spot for at least thirty minutes - motionless and silent; if it would all have depended on him, Samuel would not have ceased to do as the latter until a critical stage of hunger, or thirst (potentially the natural urge of metabolism) would have threw his thoughts back on life's track.

Not that anyone has actually cared to ask, but, if one would have questioned this type of random reaction and behaviour from him, the man would have threw in the bluff that he was just simply in this state of shock _because_ the amount of civilian lives lost aboard that plane was... not that much negligible.

The final reports - the ones that were booked and archived yesterday - have indicated that a total of hundred and forty-one civilians have lost their life in the crash, along with the six terrorists (whom were left unidentified, as the UN's recovery teams could, officially, not find their bodies), eight on-board staff members (including the pilot and co-pilot), and a single TSA-agent - Chris Markson, whose deceased corpse was, as worded by the initial reports, so heavily damaged by the gunshots _and_ the explosion the plane has suffered on impact that it was almost unrecognisable; therefore, after obtaining photographical evidence that the body has existed in the first place, the UN recovery team's leaders have decided that, without _any_ consent, they will incinerate Markson's corpse - stating that it was probably for the best.

A hundred and sixty-five casualties was the total body count on this one, and no one was overly amused by this event - especially not the TSA and Interpol; the last thing they have wanted for themselves at the current times was another terrorist-group to emerge - whatever nationality they may have been from.

Nevertheless, although it should naturally not have, but Broyles had the feeling that this thing will blow over soon - maybe somewhat way too quickly, even.

And this... _this_ was what was bothering him deep down - some specific things and public information about the crash just sounded... "off".

Samuel would not have known how to properly explain it; the best and closest word could have used to give a recognisable and comprehensible meaning to his thoughts would have been "faked".

In reality, the true and honest reason of why he could not force himself to produce a single physical movement for half-an-hour after the preliminary reports of the crash came in was due to a few... minor disbeliefs he had.

For the record, however, Broyles was never a man to doubt the words of his superiors - he would occasionally question them, especially when they sounded odd in the first place - but this time he had a hunch; a simple and single, natural feeling that what the public broadcast was showing (in combination with TSA's received and analysed intelligence) was not everything that has occurred aboard that plane that night.

Samuel has actually decided to move past the regular bullshit: the black-box (originally _orange_ ) was too damaged for any usable data to be recovered, and blaming the electronic-failure on some light breeze of a storm was outright ridiculous - but questioning these would have took him nowhere, other than a few dodgy and somewhat distressing conspiracy-sites.

When people in high places wanted others to believe something, they would always come up with newer and newer answers, and the public would take those for granted - no matter how brilliant or laughably pathetic they were; currently, there were no other answers than the above, and so, everyone has hurried to find refuge in the purple fog of those explanations.

Save that for Broyles.

His mind was more settled on such issues as the so-called "electrical-storm" - those things were not even supposed to even just scar an airplane, let alone damage it to the point where its entire system was fried to the point where it has ceased to function entirely!

Two words he has clearly remembered from his Physics-class: Faraday-cage - something which's _entire_ purpose was to shield and protect any commercial flight from lightning and storms; and, since a plane's structure itself was _essentially_ a Faraday-cage, such explanations as an "electrical-storm" would have automatically became invalid, what is more - physically impossible!

But, sadly and disappointingly enough, not everyone has paid attention to scientific evidence these days.

Alternative theorists (the ones that have actually realised that an "electrical-storm" would _never_ have taken down that flight) suggested to the investigating agencies that the terrorists may have detonated an EMP while they were on-board; albeit this would have been somewhat of a more reasonable explanation, it was still bleeding from multiple wounds - most specifically from the one that was titled "reasons and logic".

After all, a hijacking is generally supposed to send a message; what would have been the point of disabling the plane with an electromagnetic pulse over the Atlantic?

Logically, nothing - and, repeated for another time, this was what was troubling Broyles at his mind's deepest point; the knowing that something was absolutely wrong here, that the entire world was lied to for reasons that may never be uncovered.

The understanding that he could have quit TSA and searched for answers to his questions on this topic for the rest of his life...

At the end of the day, he only would have found the perfect essence of _nothing_.

 _TSA Headquarters, Arlington, Washington, District of Columbia, United States of America_

 _11:52, October 31, 2014._

 _Samuel Broyles, Federal Air Marshal Service, TSA_

Agent Broyles has received the untitled E-Mail from some random guy named "Gregory Marsh" exactly four seconds before he was about to leave for his regular, everyday twelve o'clock coffee - he already had his car's keys in his left hands, and was ready to send the cautionary heads-up text message to his supervisor at the office with his right; just for the unlikely case of someone looking or searching for him (which, so far, has only happened twice - too much of a confusing shame that there were two people named "Broyles" at this office, and, twice out of twice, individuals have been actually looking for the _other_ "Broyles").

Staring at the monitor with a mild surprise, Samuel has raised an eyebrow, and slowly reached for the mouse to click on the freshly-arrived virtual letter; as he was doing so, the man has took a light grip on his swivel-chair, pulled it backwards for the length of a meter or so, then sat down on the soft cushion - an unusual feature in office chairs nowadays.

Broyles never in his life has heard of the recipient, which was the primary reason of why he has felt reluctant to open the mail in the first place - however, he already _has_ at this moment of time, therefore there was no logical excuse of why he should not have read it.

After all, at the first glance, the entire structure of this digital form of communication has looked official and serious enough; hence this, Samuel has gone ahead, and began to read through the letter:

 _Dear Mr. Broyles; I terribly hope that my message finds you in times not so dire, as the, shall we title it, "incident" that has occurred in the past days most likely has caused great distress among you and your fellow employees at the TSA - in case anyone's family at your office has been directly affected by the event, please; pass on my deepest condolences._

"Who the hell is this guy?", thought Broyles to himself at this section of the letter, truly hoping that this message has actually came from one of his more comedic acquaintances from this office; he was wishing this, mostly because of the fact that _whoever_ this Mr. Marsh may have been, he definitely has knew that he was sending his words to a TSA-agent - that was evident from the details of the message itself. Albeit not a direct violation of any security-measure or protocol, Samuel still felt that this E-Mail may have been a bit too... deep-reaching and personal.

Nevertheless, if the above would not have been _entirely_ enough to raise a red flag inside Broyles' head, the rest of the letter and its following lines have fully expanded on our man's concerns about "personal information" being contained in this electronic mail:

 _Nonetheless, I do not aim to waste your time with boring eulogies; I have mainly contacted you to discuss a few... options that I believe would be beneficial to both your and my concerns as well._

 _Without paltering for too long, I will immediately switch to the point: I am willing to offer you a job, Mr. Broyles - a position much more... worthwhile than your current work at the TSA._

 _I have took the liberty to... make some inquiries at your employer's office, and have been told that you have a "daily routine" of purchasing a cup of coffee in the Pentagon Centre; since the description of the job I would be willing to offer to you is rather... unusual - and, if I may personally add, rather unconventional - I would only agree to the sharing of additional information in person._

 _For the time being, I will not say anything else, as this is all you will need to know for now._

 _If you are, by any chance, interested in my offer, meet me today in the Pentagon Centre at midday - 12:00 - and we can discuss the matter in a more detailed manner._

 _Yours Sincerely,_

 _Gregory Marsh, PSRI Executive_

The fact that this individual - whom, for the clear record, Broyles has never in his life has heard of - knew his daily routine was troubling, to say at the _very_ least; there and then, when he had the chance (at this exact moment), Samuel should have reported this to his director - mostly due to the fact that, at the end of the day, this electronic letter was somewhat disconcerting.

Not that Broyles was suspecting anyone to lure him into a lethal situation, or a deadly trap - no one would have had a reason to; it was just as if... ah, _nevermind_.

He was just growing paranoid now; something that he has shown in the past few days with an unsettling reoccurrence.

Since that plane went down - what is more, since Agent Higgins, Markson's late air-marshal partner, was officially ruled in as _deceased_.

Sometimes, Broyles would see a man, usually dressed in a suit, standing near corners of streets and houses, or sitting on park benches, constantly smoking, and sometimes talking on the phone or... or taking notes - but never diverting his gaze from Samuel. _This_ was why the man was paranoid; something which he himself would have identified as a fair reason, if he would ever have been asked for one.

Nevertheless, he deleted the E-Mail, switched his office PC to "sleep mode", stood up - checked for his phone and keys - and began to head towards the elevator, which he was planning on taking to the ground floor.

He did not care: chances were that some random idiot got his hands on his mail-address, and was now sending "funny" (oh, _absolutely hilarious_ ) messages to him. Whoever this guy (or girl; people use all kinds of fake names nowadays) was, Broyles was not afraid of insignificant little pranksters, and was not going to take a longer drive to another coffee shop (in case his identity and privacy did required some protection) just because of one moron's stupid game they might have been planning on playing for a longer extent of time with Samuel.

With these thoughts on his mind, he stepped into the elevator (which has just happened to be on the same floor he was on), and hit the button which had a "downwards-arrow" symbol engraved onto it.

The man was so settled on his near-future actions that he has entirely forgot about the section of his paranoia which was about a "chain-smoker in a two-piece suit" following him around - spying on him.

Furthermore, by the time Broyles has left the building through the front door, no more thoughts of "men in suits" have succeeded in crossing his mind.

The journey to the coffee-shop - where Broyles, once he bought the drink, has also regularly liked to finish it as well, always sitting near the windows, enjoying that lonely twenty minutes he could acquire on a once-per-day basis - was literally a walk across the street from the TSA's headquarters: after he left the building's glass doors, he was to turn left, onto the pavement of the 12th Street, walk an approximate distance of twenty meters (or a rough estimate of sixty-five feet, in empirical-values) 'till he reached the intersection of the aforementioned road, and Hayes Street.

From here, it was only a walk across to the other side of the road, and another thirty meters (ninety-eight feet) down the latter lane, right until it would be mandatory for Broyles to take another left - given that he was wishing to pick up today's portion of coffee, of course.

All in all, this walk was almost exactly a minute, sometimes two - it all depended on the general density of the traffic at the time of the day.

As soon as he was done with his route, Samuel began to wonder if his E-Mail "admirer" will actually show up today, _or_ the contrary - which would have ultimately proved that all this was just an un-funny joke by some bored kid.

Whichever the case be, the above considered outcome would not have mattered anyways; after all, the electronic message has not diverted Broyles from his daily routine in any shape or form, therefore, the sender of the mail could still be fully categorised as "meaningless".

Whatever way things were to happen today at his coffee-break, they were going to be meaningless anyway: just like any other day at the office.

Stepping inside, his ears caught the familiar sound of the doorbell above him, and the unmistakeable scent (or, to some, stench) of freshly-made coffee - all of the variations at that (albeit, admittedly, even those "variations" usually had the same aroma).

He nodded at the grey-haired man at the main counter, who returned the gesture - Broyles knew him for the past six or seven years; Bobby Ferguson, a lone and simple guy with an admirable passion for selling coffee - essentially just what Samuel had the most gigantic need for in this moment.

\- Doin' okay, Sam? - asked the old man casually, leaning on the seller's counter with a welcoming smile on his wrinkled face - What can I do you for today? An Espresso, or perhaps a Cappucino? - he kept listing the two types of drinks which Broyles always chose between, depending on his mood and given level of exhaustion, or, rarely, on the length of time he was planning on staying away from the office.

This made his self-established options rather more simplistic (than complicated) for every kind of situation of a workday; if he felt himself to be awake and aware enough, he would only take a quick Espresso, and get back to his work and the office almost immediately; if he felt absolutely sleep-deprived, he would choose a stronger Cappucino, and spend roughly a total of fifteen minutes, slowly sipping the hot drink away - a habit he learned and picked up during his years in Paris, back in the days of his university-studies.

\- A long Cappucino today, Bobby - he sighed as he weakly rested his left hand on the counter; in the meanwhile, with his right, he was dug around the inside of his coat's pockets for his leather purse, as he was _aiming_ to pay for this coffee while he was here.

\- Tired today, eh, son? - beamed Ferguson, but Broyles placed a relaxed and non-aggressive grin on his face, badly attempting to not allow the sea of uncertainties surface from the sub-conscious parts of his currently troubled mind; after all, the old man behind the counter has lived through the Cold War _and_ Vietnam, without any permanent injuries (neither mental or physical). He has already fought through his fair-share of problems in life; Samuel did not wish to burden him down with his own concerns and problems.

Which was the primary reason of why responded - verbally - with a bluff.

\- Only mentally, Bobby, not physically - Broyles glanced to his visual-cone's bottom left, changing his eyes' direction so that they were now focused on the bottom of the cash-register; an observant individual would have noticed the less-than-subtle signs and twitches that were involuntarily made by Samuel as he dropped his small-sized lie, but, fortunately to the latter, Ferguson was not _that_ watchful when it came to his regular customers.

\- Well, coffee ain't gonna' help that, son - replied Bobby with a light laugh, but still began to fulfil Broyles' request of one cup of caffeine-packed hot drink - But that does not mean that I am not going to give you one - he winked at his buyer with an even bigger and happier smile.

"Well, at least he is having a good time", thought Broyles to himself, but still faked a merry expression onto his face; Ferguson was, for this time, swift to notice the clearly pretended emotional feeling, and his own smile quickly faded away from his aged face.

\- Listen kid, I kinda, uh... "overheard" a conversation between a couple of other guys from your office; they were talking about that transatlantic flight that went down the other day... - he grew awkwardly silent as Samuel glanced up at him, but after the TSA-agent has gestured with his head to the man to continue on, Bobby spoke the rest of what he wished to say - They mentioned how that other guy, that, uh... Markson, I think his name was, was aboard the plane, so... - he took a deep breath, then exhaled with an sorrowful sigh - Eh, look at me, rambling on again! Look, son; I know you two were close friends, and I sometimes saw him myself down here, buying a herbal tea now and then... Anyhow, I just wanted to give you my deepest condolences. On those rare occasions when I have seen him... yeah, I found him to be a good kind of a guy - Bobby stared off into the distance, following a blue car in the traffic with his eyes, right up until the point where the vehicle has disappeared in the intersection, and drove off to its destination (a place unknown to Ferguson) - By the way, I hope that I ain't breaking some type of a protocol of yours with this kinda talk - the old cashier raised both of his palms in front of himself, signalling Samuel that he did not wished to be too intrusive in the current topic.

This time, it was Broyles' turn to give off a light laugh:

\- Oh, no, nothing like that, Bobby - he forced himself to beam a sad smile towards Ferguson, then realised that he was only seconds away from somewhat-involuntarily becoming awfully impolite - No, I... I, uh, appreciate your words, and, uh... - nothing has followed his fair share of _uh_ s however, as Broyles has never actually finished his sentence; nonetheless, subsequently after he gave his own head a doleful and heavy shake, the agent has continued the conversation with a somewhat earlier note - Also, about protocol... we have nothing against being given a shoulder to cry on; I only mean the latter in a metaphorical way only, of course. Even then, I guess the story has already been broadcasted for days by now - he grinned, in a negative style, this time, referring to the official news, which he has personally believed to have been altered to some unknown level or degree; nevertheless, once again, he did not wanted to pass on any of his trouble-full thoughts to Bobby, and was therefore not planning on further expanding on the topic.

\- Yeah, they had it all around the news-channels lately, but they refused to state any specific names; they said it was due to some _legal crap_ , of course - then, as if the past conversation would never in their life has actually occurred, Ferguson, clapped his hands together, and declared triumphantly: - Still and all, son, here's your coffee now - the old man spoke as he handed over a steaming paper-cup with the shop's company's logo on its front and back; the drink was already perfectly ready at least two, maybe three minutes ago, but Samuel did not have the heart to interrupt Bobby in the middle of his eulogy.

\- Thanks, and keep the change - Broyles took the hot drink with his left, and dropped a bank-note into Ferguson's held-out hand; following his payment, Sam proceeded to one of the unoccupied seats near the shop's windows. Behind his back, the agent could still hear Bobby's affable words.

\- Hey, Sam, if you need anything else or more, you know where to find me - as a physical reply to this, Broyles has held out his right in an angle where he was sure the old man could visually see it, and held his thumb up; a non-verbal gesture of "thanks", and the agent was definite that his well-wisher has understood the words which Sam was hoping to communicate through movement.

Whilst walking over to his generally used - almost favourite - table, Broyles took a quick glance at his watch; the digital display showed the arranged numbers of "12:09".

"Seems like my unknown friend has decided to pull the plug on his _interview_ with me!", he chuckled quietly to himself, and carefully placed his still steaming coffee down on the desk.

As he sat down, something has flashed - both physically and metaphorically - in the corner of his eyes; the rays of the shining sun, which were rather strong today, despite the generally cold near-winter time in DC, have been reflected rather harshly by the glass door of the coffee-shop: apparently, a new customer has decided to have themselves a cup of Bobby's coffee.

Still, be that as it may, Sam has failed to recognise any of the three men, all in suits, who have just entered the shop; Pentagon Centre or not, this specific shop only had regulars, and there was about a one to a million chance of a random, unknown person - let alone _three_ people - entering the shop to have their hot drink.

After glancing around for a few seconds (and only attracting a minor glance from Broyles himself), two of the men have nodded, went ahead, and sat down to two seemingly random tables - no one has appeared to pay too much attention to them.

The third and last man has removed the brown fedora from his head, unbuttoned his long rain- and trench-coat, then began to walk in a direction that was reaching uncomfortably-close to the table where Broyles was sitting.

Originally Sam was not thinking as such, but he soon had to realise that it was this unknown man's _intention_ to walk to the direct proximity of the table where Broyles was attempting to enjoy his coffee; unexpected by the latter TSA-employee, the individual with the brown fedora has reached out with an open hand towards him, and began to speak in the most extremely-polite way imaginable.

\- Ah, Mr. Broyles, a pleasure this is, indeed! I must apologise for my lateness, I am afraid I have been... _delayed_ by a minor issue at my company - the man has topped everything off with a television-announcer-type of a smile, and firmly kept his hand extended for a handshake; the limb was held out in such a stable way that it has appeared to have no intention to sway, even to just a minor degree.

Confused and not quite sure about what to say or do, Sam has not responded with anything overly specific, but, instead, asked a question.

\- I am sorry, but... do I know you, sir? - as he stated this inquiry, the smile from the unknown man's face has appeared to fade away a bit, almost turning into an aggressive grin; nevertheless, the facial gesture of the standing individual has still seemed to have been "renewed" in the last moment.

\- Oh, I am afraid I must apologise again, Mr. Broyles... Now, where have I placed my manners? - as the man spoke, Sam, in a way which was more indiscernible than not, lifted an eyebrow; there was something rather _odd_ about this person in the TSA-agent's eyes, but the only problem was that he just... _could not determine what this_ oddness _was_.

As he kept contemplating over this, the man has began to speak once again.

\- My name is Gregory Marsh, I am the executive officer of the PSRI Pharmaceutical-Corporation; I personally believe you have heard of us beforehand, as we do uphold a somewhat respectable level of market-share amongst our competitors - he retracted his extended arm, gently positioned his coat on the back of the empty chair (which was directly facing the one Broyles was momentarily sitting in), carelessly threw his fedora on the table (that has, _incidentally_ , landed right on the yet unconsumed coffee, preventing Sam from reaching it without manually removing the headwear), then pulled out the aforementioned chair, and took a seat on it - I am the one who has sent you a letter, where I have offered you a potential job; something that I know you have read - as he finished with the latter sentence, the man has clasped the two of his hands together, and began to stare directly at Broyles, and in a rather... _intimidating_ manner at that, surprisingly enough.

For a minute or two of solid and tense silence, the two men kept staring at each other, none of them claiming defeat and submitting themselves by lowering their gaze towards the ground for the entire span of the above mentioned time-set.

In the very end, it was Marsh who glanced away, turning his head towards one of the buildings on the other side of the road, lightly smiling and almost unnoticeably shaking his head.

When his eyes have returned their focus-point of Broyles' face, the man has shrugged in a questioning way, as if he was awaiting something overly important to occur.

\- So? - he asked, his shoulders raised a tiny bit higher, representing his main aim of inquiry - What is your response to my offer, Mr. Broyles? - the deceitful and misleading smile has reappeared on his face, Sam starting to think more cautiously about this person with each passing second.

\- With all respect, Mr. Marsh... - spoke the TSA-agent for the first time after many minutes - I have no interest in _any_ kind of job-offer you want to give me; furthermore, you tracking me down, potentially observing me to find out my daily-routines... Do you honestly expect me to trust you and accept your offer after this? Personally, _I do not think so_ \- Broyles has crossed his arms, and leaned back in his chair - I do not even know who you are, and have never actually heard of your company - he added as if he was dealing a final blow, absolutely assured about his assumption that he has tipped the metaphorical scale of the _status quo_ in his own direction.

It was actually highly expected by Sam that this "PSRI-CEO" will not be too charmed by his words, and Marsh has lived up to these expectations: the treacherous smile has now entirely vanished, and was replaced with a grin of pure frustration and annoyance - for a moment, Broyles was expecting the man to burst out with some rather unacceptable words and insults, but, at the end, this was not what happened.

Instead of Sam's predictions, Marsh has removed all recognisable human emotions from his face ( _except_ the foreboding shadow that has now successfully conquered all regions from his forehead to his chin), and lowered his eyebrows.

\- Mr. Broyles, I did not come here today all the way from Boston to receive a dismissive answer - Marsh has leant ahead as he spoke, his elbows tightly resting halfway-across the coffee-table.

\- Then I believe that you must be rather disappointed, as I have clearly just stated "no" - spoke Broyles, and gazed around incredulously - I mean, hell; what are you going to do, force a Homeland Security-supervised agent to work for you, or what? - by saying this, Sam, although yet unbeknownst to him, has started a chain of predetermined events which had no way of stopping.

\- As a matter of fact, I have planned for this scenario heading off in this direction, and, providently, I have prepared a... "fail-safe", just to assure that me paying a visit to you will be _worthwhile_ , whatever the final outcome - as Marsh said these words, no further emotions that could have betrayed his honest feelings have showed up on his face; this has counted as a minor-to-major disadvantage to Broyles, as he was unable to read some of this man's true intentions.

\- What "fail-safe" are you talking about? - asked Sam, barely being able to hold himself from laughing; not because he found the situation hilarious, but due to the fact that when he was unsure of what emotion to feel in a given situation, he would have reacted with nervous laughter instead.

\- Mr. Broyles, can you see that building on the other side of the road? - Marsh questioned.

\- Yeah, the Ritz-Carlton Hotel - shrugged the agent - What about it? - he also grinned.

\- There is a sniper on the top floor of the building, who, even now, is having a crystal-clean view at your head while looking through his scope; additionally, the men who came in here with me were carrying duffel-bags - he gestured towards the two aforementioned individuals - Those duffel-bags are carrying military-grade M4A1 rifles; do you know what calibre those things use? - he aimed a direct question at Sam, who, albeit somewhat unwillingly, but still gave an accurate answer.

\- 5.56 millimetres - although furious about what this man was _daring_ to speak and suggest in public, Broyles still kept a cool head, and maintained constant eye-contact with Marsh; however, he was not exactly sure what he was wishing (or would have been able) to accomplish with this.

\- Spot-on; 5.56 millimetres, you know, the "one shot, one kill" type rounds, especially if they are aimed at a target that has no body-protection. A _civilian_ , on the worst days - the speaker casually glanced around, taking a good look at each person sitting in the coffee-shop (this excluding Marsh's two accomplices).

A young lady could be seen in the far left corner of the place, hastily typing something on her laptop; not too far away from her, a middle-aged man was reading today's newspaper; finally, a tired-looking mother, who occasionally came here with her daughter, mostly because Bobby and the woman's deceased husband have served together in the army. From what Broyles has seen in the past years, the young girl _loved_ Ferguson.

\- Hm - Marsh could be heard again - Well, I have to say, there are not too many civilians here; but they are _still_ civilians, innocent lives that can be extinguished in the matter of only a few seconds - the man has lifted his fedora off the table, and began to mess around with its rim, as to give some form of a distraction to his hands.

\- You are just bluffing; there are no guns in those bags - spoke Broyles suddenly, to which Marsh has only responded with another gesture; this time, however, it was done with his entire body.

As he stretched his arms, he nodded towards one of the men who entered with him; as Sam followed with his eyes, he spotted as one of the persons have unzipped their duffel-bag, and began to dig around inside, as if they were searching for something.

For a split second, the barrel of a rifle could be seen hanging out from the bag, albeit more discreetly than obviously; then, a quickly as it appeared, as swiftly it has disappeared back into the darkness of the bag as its bearer (and possible owner) has zipped it up again.

Marsh, who has observed everything with a disgusting calmness and nonchalance, has now turned towards Broyles again, who was now beginning to sweat on his brow, and was clenching his fists tighter with every passing minute.

\- You would not dare to do it, and you know that! - hissed Sam challengingly, although his unstable and irregular breathing patterns did not assisted this kind of talk - You are not _that_ stupid. There are too many cameras around here, you would be identified, tracked, and apprehended before you know it! - Broyles was now expecting a somewhat afraid or set-aback reaction from Marsh, but the man just sat there, rotating his fedora around and around, not appearing to have a care in the world; in truth, he did care, but he knew that all the cards were in his hands.

\- Cameras; funny little equipment, they are - spoke the gentleman in a comedian's voice and tone, and with a sarcastic and pretended smile, paying an unrealistic amount of attention to the little and single pieces of fluff that were stuck to his over-observed hat - Give them an itsy bit of an electrical overload, and they are knocked out for good; the best thing is that you can even control this procedure - in that sudden moment, he slapped his fedora back on to the coffee-table, albeit not aggressively enough to attract unwanted attention; the fake smile has disappeared from his face, and the alarming shadow has returned to the expressive-sections of his head - What do you take me for, Broyles, an absolute moron? Our tech-team has disabled all public and private cameras in this shop, _and_ the surrounding ten miles for the next four hours; nothing is being recorded or monitored, and nothing could be revealed later on, _if_ you decide to choose the hard way - Marsh has leant back once again, a victorious expression settling onto his face - You either work for us, or you will never work for anyone, ever again - he spread his arms, held them in the air for a few seconds, then dropped them onto his laps.

Although Broyles felt that what was on his mind would have been the most stupidest and obvious thing to ask, he could not hold himself back from actually questioning so:

\- Are you threatening me? - he stated his inquiry, his right hand already in his pocket, Sam himself being ready and steady with all his muscles to jump away from the visual-range of the claimed-to-be-there sniper; even though these men had guns, Broyles has thought himself to be a rather excellent runner (despite the office-work), and "no cameras" did not mean "no police". A single call could have got him off the hook in this situation; however, he had to wait for the right moment.

\- Threatening you? Oh, no, I am quite far away from that; I am merely _suggesting_ to you what you should mandatorily do - Marsh replaced the emotionless lips with his politician-smile again, reaching across the table, and lifting Broyles' untouched coffee away from him; after he took a sip from the drink, the man has continued on, his face now as equally as cold as the coffee he just tasted - However, if you do not want this shop gunned to _oblivion_ by my men, and your brains blown across the floor by my sniper, I would suggest that you do exactly as I say - he then turned to scan around, making sure that no one else, only Broyles, has heard his previous words of dreadful content; facing back towards Sam, his expressions have loosened a bit again - See? _Now_ I am threatening you - not leaving his pattern of leaning-back movements to go to waste, Marsh has returned to the more comfortable position in his chair, stared straight into the center of Broyles' eye, and was now awaiting a response from the TSA-employee.

At this point of the "conversation", Sam truly have had no idea on how to respond; from what he gathered from all of Marsh's previous words, he essentially had no way out - be that a neutral, defensive "run away and hide" strategy, or a more risky, "run for the gun and hope for the best" tactic.

He required time to think: there _always_ was a way out where he could live, and this situation was no different; however, he could not do anything else now than play time.

Time was the key thing that Broyles has now needed the worst - he had to figure something out, but doing that while this man was listening to his every word and move... way too dangerous.

Responding, then letting the man speak has seemed like the most excellent and viable option for Sam to go ahead with now; with nothing else or specific coming to his mind, he decided that to acquire an emotional (and hopefully long-winded answer) from Marsh was to verbally challenge him.

And what better way was there for that, if not insulting him?

\- Mr. Marsh, or... whatever your name is... - he began with an honest smile, shaking his head while he was almost practically laughing about his current situation - You are a piece of shit, you know that? - Broyles attacked with his words, maintaining a steady posture with his body, which, under its guise, was not too far away from quivering from fear; with his deliberately-offensive sentence, Sam, when he judged from Marsh's facial expressions, has came to the conclusion that he must have crossed an imaginary line that was set out by the latter, as the man on the other end of the coffee-table has raised an intimidating eyebrow; naturally, it is almost impossible to imagine an eyebrow appearing as "intimidating", however, in some indescribable way, Marsh has somehow managed to make such a simple facial-muscle movement... rather alarming.

\- Me? - the gentleman asked back cryptically, and in a frightening style, cocking his head just a little bit to the right side - _I_ am the piece of shit? No, you are the piece of shit here, Broyles, and only you! - he slowly rose from his chair, slowly-but-surely elevating the volume of his voice; due to this, Sam was now not the only one who could hear his... _colourful_ vocabulary. Rather a colourful vocabulary that was, indeed; littered with a couple of insults here and there... almost poetic, really - I came here to offer you a job, which is way out of the league of your current, dastardly puppet-show with the TSA, and you turn me down like a common beggar! - at this point, the entire lowly-crowded coffee-shop was staring at Marsh in a mixture of what Broyles could only have described as sheer confusion, slight alarm, and honest concern; apparently having the only one to feel even just a minimal amount of conscience and a sense of duty about the situation, Ferguson glanced up from behind the counter, then started to head towards the shouting man with carefully measured, and slowly approaching, non-threatening speed of movement.

\- Excuse me, sir, is there a problem here? - he questioned in a civilised manner, attempting to steer clear of any potential danger that might originate from Marsh's tightly clenched fists; unlike Sam's, the man's hands were influenced by frustration, and not by what essentially was the fear of likely-death.

\- Stay out of this if you do not want to get hurt, grandpa! - spat Marsh towards Bobby, who has now staggered in his walking, pretty much being shocked from the sudden verbal violence that has emerged from this unknown, suited person; not that he should not have expected to be offended by an obviously infuriated individual, but still... Ferguson had a bad feeling about this.

\- Sir, can you please restrict yourself from... - Bobby began to negotiate, to which the only response he has received was to be given the lifetime-opportunity of "staring down at the barrel of a gun"; the compact-sized pistol has appeared with such swiftness from the underside of Marsh's trench-coat, that it has almost seemed as if it had just materialised out of thin air. Broyles has also noted the refined and rather elegant movement with which the gun has been removed from its concealed holster; one thing was definite, and that was that this man knew perfectly well how to handle a firearm.

It was one of those things men like Broyles would have spotted in the very first moment of the weapon's initial appearance in its handler's hands.

\- Another god-damn word out of your mouth and you are not going to have any brains left to think about those words with! - shouted the gentleman, his head appearing to change to a shade of red this time.

Realising that the only thing separating him from ballistic-trauma was the measure of how itchy Marsh's right index-finger was, Bobby has now started to back up, hands raised in front of himself, as if those would have served any protection.

The young woman with her laptop has opened her eyes wide, and her mouth was not far behind; however, when seeing the armed man pulling an open palm in front of his own neck, she has still managed to swallow her cry of distress, understanding that she was to do what the gunman was wanting her to do if she was aiming on staying alive.

The middle-aged man has jumped out of his seat, dropping his newspaper-bundle as if he has just suddenly experienced some form of paralysis; he held his hands up, his shaky and sweaty palms facing towards Marsh, his head bolting from left to right with a constant gesture of surrender and begging-for-mercy.

The woman in her thirties - the mother - has covered her child with the entirety of her body, albeit _she_ was not as successful in holding back a frightened cry than the other woman; to every non-psychopath's misfortune in the establishment, no pedestrian has heard anything from the shop. Fearing for her own - but mostly for the daughter's - life, the mother has covered her mouth with one of her hands; after she has done as such, she began to tremble like a doe, almost accepting that she may have been about to become deceased in the worryingly-near future.

\- Just so you know, people! - shouted Marsh, but, once again, not loud enough to be heard by the entire street (which, to Broyles' greatest surprise, was actually entirely empty, along with the main road as well); as he was completing his monologue, Marsh's two other men have uncovered their rifles from their duffel bags, and have began to force everyone to lie down on the cold, marble-floor - If any single one of you make the wrong kind of movement, we will not hesitate to take down all of you! - he pointed at each person with the barrel of his pistol, who, due to their absolutely-unshakeable states of shock, did not even had the bravery to breathe too loudly.

After he made sure that everyone has understood the rules of his game, Marsh has turned towards Broyles, but lowered his weapon; although, even if Sam would have been feeling lucky enough to take a lunge towards the gentleman and attempt to take his weapon, Marsh did not seemed to be an amateur here - he kept his distance, and was just far enough to kill with a quick-draw at any time, in the case where Broyles would have decided to throw his life away.

\- Last chance, Broyles! - he reached under his shirt, and took out another pistol-like firearm, but this one being a bit more bulky and having an unusual appearance than the _most definitely_ -lethal Glock Marsh was still tightly holding onto with his right hand - You either take my offer, and you will live, or, you do not, and you will die! The choice is only, and _only_ yours - the man declared without any clear emotion on his face, raising the bulky-pistol with his left, the barrel now pointing right at Sam's heart.

His life was on the line here, and there has seemed to be no way out of this - if this would have been chess, he may as well should have just pushed his king's piece over, as there was no escape from this damn position!

Nevertheless, he was no coward, and would generally have not ran from a fight; however, this situation had no way out: even if Sam somehow would have subdued Marsh, took out the two other men with the acquired pistol, and made a run for it, there may or may not have been a sharpshooter on one of the buildings on the opposite side of the main road outside, and that was too much and high of a risk to take.

Even when there was no other way out, at least he was hoping that he will not have to suffer through multiple shots in his kneecaps, arms, and what-not - if this Marsh-psycho had any kind of essential and basic sense of mercy in his twisted head... he will take one shot to the head, and leave Broyles' to-be-corpse un-robbed, and not truncated.

He was not planning on working for a maniac, and has decided to take the choice he has deemed to be most appropriate for his own self-conscience; come what may come, he was prepared for it.

\- My answer is still no, Mr. Marsh, and I am afraid that there is nothing you can change my mind with -Sam shook his head as he glanced up at the gun-wielding gentleman, even considering a nod, just to show that he has acknowledged that, in a few seconds, he was going to die.

And to consider that he only came down here for just a regular coffee today...

\- Wrong answer - Marsh smiled with a minimal hint of disappointment, and shot the gun that was held in his left hand; the electric-dart fired by the CO2-cartridge of the tranquiliser-pistol has violently crashed against Broyles' chest, initiating its "shocking-effect" as soon as it has made contact with the TSA-employee's shirt.

Sam has began to twitch and shake in an uncontrollable manner, falling off of his chair and onto the floor, not getting a moment of rest from the almost unbearable feeling of a continuous electroshock-effect, pushing him until the point where he could not control his own salivation, and his vision has began to slowly fade into a mix of darkness and whiteness.

After being in this exposed and non-escapable position for about twenty seconds, his mind has went blank, along with everything else, and the world around him has swirled and was mixed into a mash of absolute white light, and occasional dark spots.

Another second later, he has lost consciousness.

 _Arlington, Washington, District of Columbia, United States of America_

 _12:21, October 31, 2014._

 _Gregory Marsh, Director of the PSRI_

He gave the still twitching body a light push with his shoe, then, as he nodded, satisfied with himself, Marsh has holstered PSRI-developed prototype electroshock-weapon, turning to his two other men, getting ready to talk.

\- Seems like he chose the hard way; now I will have to explain the _whole_ story to him once he wakes up in Boston - he glanced down at the civilians who were still lying on the ground, still as a grave in their shock and silent panic - I will move him to the car, you two finish up here - he nodded towards the rifles in his men's hands; the ones that were lethal, unlike the taser-variant he just used.

\- Subdue them, sir? - one of the men requested the important piece of information, as this would make a minor difference in how well they were going to sleep tonight.

As an answer, Marsh just shook his head, having a fun time with his henchman's naive idea.

\- No, they count as eye- and ear-witnesses. Put on your silencers and deal with them - he ordered during the somewhat physically-demanding process of lifting up Broyles, so that he could carry him to his car, which was parked in more concealed position, rather than being in the wide open of the main street; as he began to walk out the back-exit of the shop, he turned back to his men, and gave them a last, but still important note - And move them behind the damn counter before you shoot them in the skull! Last thing we want is some idiot from the pavement to become suspicious _before_ we are out of DC! - and, with this, he pushed the door open with his elbow, carried the unconscious, but now not twitching Broyles to a grey SUV, where he pried the trunk open with his free hand, and dropped the breathing-body into a heap of blank papers - some paperwork one of the man have forgot to remove before they have set out on this little assignment.

Closing the trunk down again, Marsh let out a sigh of relief, got into the driver's seat, and keyed the ignition, bringing the car's motor to life; he was going to park in front of the coffee-shop now, so that his two subordinates could get in quickly, ultimately resulting in a swift and speedy drive-away.

The first phase of his plan was now complete; since Broyles did not chose the simple way, Marsh's hands were forced to intervene with some... drastic measures - but, then again, to the PSRI, a few human lives were not the end of the world. After all, this was for the sake of highly advanced field of science! Could there have been anything more important than that?

No major changes could be made by Broyles now in Boston, even if the man would have tried something stupid: in the best case, he would just accept the fact that he will now have no alternative, but to work for Marsh himself, and, in the worst case, he will just have to be terminated - or crossed-over, but that may have been too risky to do just yet.

Anyhow things may occur from this point on, Marsh took it for a fact that Broyles _will_ work for him; the only choice the now ex-TSA-employee will have is how simple or hard he was going to make this entire scenario.

At the end of the day, it would always be Marsh calling the shots; after all, _he_ was the head of the PSRI - a position which soon may be compared to that of a higher-deity.


	3. Visions of the Dead

**Well, this has took long - actually, it has took _very, very_ long, and I must apologise for that. Nevertheless, I think that " academic years reaching their ends and are therefore becoming more stressing" counts as a universal issue anywhere, anytime.  
** **So, if a chapter seems to take a bit longer than usual... now my readers know _why_ it takes a bit longer than usual.**

 **Anyway, it is the chapter you people have been waiting for, and it is a chapter you are going to get.**

 _ **I do not own the Guardians of Ga'Hoole series.  
** **I take all characters that do not belong to Kathryn Lasky as my own characters and creations.**_ _ **  
**_ _ **The Federal Air Marshal Service and the Transportation Security Administration are not my creations.**_

Visions of the Dead

 _Northern-Ambala, Southern-Kingdoms_

 _Close to 5:43 p.m._

 _Nick Miles, PSRI Agent_

Taking care of the bird's appointed examiner was not an overly complicated task, given that this medic - some small-sized little owl with an apparently overly-nervous nature - turned out to be rather defense- and helpless, especially without a set of any kind of basic weaponry - metal daggers and such - for self-protection.

After the latter owl's throat was cut, and his bloody, lightly twitching and still warm body was left under the forest-ground's bushes to slowly grow cold, the PSRI infiltrator agent - known by his peers only by the name Nick Miles - could begin his own form of a questioning; no aggressive form of interrogation was required in this case however, as the target - a female Pygmy Owl, and a relatively young one at that - was already in a state in which she was confused and nervous enough to tell a random, trustworthy-appearing inquirer just about anything.

Agent Miles has forcefully plucked out a few of his own feathers - most specifically the ones on which the now either dead or rapidly dying owl's blood has spilled on - to not raise too much suspicions inside his target; once again, it was not as if she would not have been in a mental state where she was too distracted with her own problems and concerns than to notice a moderately-sized patch of feathers somehow missing from her "new" examiner's chest, but... the PSRI-agent was not too willing to take any major - let alone minor - chances today.

Especially after that... regrettable loss his fellow operative and brother-in-arms, Agent Zwegger has brought upon Fayer and the rest of the team.

After Nick has considered the signs of murder to be, at least, decently concealed and removed enough from his plumage, he cleared his throat (as if he was required to), and casually marched into the hollow, taking on his most convincingly empathetic and trustable facial expression - acting just like he was walking into an afternoon's tea-party.

The interior of the birch-tree, for the agent, was most reminiscent of a patient's personal quarters in a mental institution, maybe even a confinement-cell; not because of a form of strangeness, or the lack of various things and items (such as books, rolled up maps, parchments and the like; the stuff these owls in _this_ world _always_ owned, no matter the circumstances) - which, for the record, were still present in this hollow, not differentiating it from any other avian living-space Miles has seen in the past three months - but rather due to the highly unusual abundance of seemingly random wooden chips, which, at their closest description, essentially encircled the entire home of this Pygmy Owl.

Nevertheless, what has managed to cause a minor discomfort in the PSRI-operative was not the actual presence of the wooden residue, but, in fact, their point of origin: all around the hollow, especially _over_ the chips, were clearly manually scratched and clawed-out carvings; in some places, there was even some kind of dark-red and dry-looking fluid, which has not managed to earn any support towards the agent's easiness.

These... _carvings_... they resembled both seemingly random or indistinguishable images, and way too obvious illustrations of owl-like figures, who (if Nick was seeing this right) were amidst insufferable horrors and pains - Miles could not truly put his mind around of what _exactly_ he was seeing, given that he only took a quick glance before immediately turning away, but, somewhere in his mind, he knew that these... images...

They were unmistakable depictions of pain and death.

In the far corner of the hollow, there was Nick's mark - his target of interrogation - the female Pygmy Owl, also identifiable by the rather lengthy name of _Glaucidium passerinum_ , known to her friends and acquaintances (as Miles was told in his briefing) as "Sylvya"; just another Northerner-bird who has decided to move down to the Southern-Kingdoms, thinking that _maybe_ it was better down here.

Although it was clear that the agent has noticed her, it has seemed that the same could not have been spoken about the female owl; as Nick has observed her more closely, he realised that the reason of her inattention was due to the bird being deeply engulfed in writing - or maybe drawing. Agent Miles did not honestly cared too much.

Even though the operation and the murder itself was covered up well by Nick, and was not expected to be found out too soon, he truly did not wanted to waste time, and has considered himself to be in a rather hasty hurry; coming up with his next action with his brain's logic, he faked coughed twice, so that the Pygmy Owl would finally become aware of his presence.

...And Sylvya did as such, albeit in a style that was rather suggestive of the theory that she was not expecting anyone to unannounced enter her hollow - indeed, as Miles has observed for the past few days, as long as her _real_ (footnote: now dead) medical-specialist was still alive, that owl would have waited politely outside the entrance of the hollow, and would also have actually spoken to make it unmistakeably obvious that he was present. Nonetheless, Nick has not done as such for reasons that were already discussed at an above point, and this did leave some consequences behind - most specifically, Sylvya's reaction.

The owl has almost leapt high enough for her feathers to be separated from her body; letting out a frightened and panicked screech (which, luckily, could only be heard inside the hollow, not alerting anyone lurking nearby), she has violently, although obviously involuntarily, crumpled up the piece of paper (or parchment) she was either writing on drawing on, and weakly dropped the feather-quill she was using for the latter, her face taking on an alarmed and almost absolutely terrified expression, her feathers almost growing as white as a sheet from her sudden fright (as if such a thing could actually be possible, when one looks towards such topics as biology).

Anyhow, Miles was not caught off-guard by this: during his days of observations, it became clear to him that this owl was more than likely to be on the verge of some form of an emotional-breakdown; the... _ability_ she possessed and displayed could be rather... morbid and brutal on most occasions, just to state the least. Still, Nick did not minded a small-but-constant amount of distress - he considered this to only make his small task of a questioning so much more simpler - less "barriers of mental resistance and will" were to be outsmarted.

Nevertheless, as quick as her panic has manifested only just a few seconds ago, as swiftly it has disappeared from Sylvya's feathered face, and this was only due to one specific thing only.

Nick's current field-commander, an elite PSRI-agent known to his peers as Field Commander Malcolm Fayer, handpicked Miles for this mission (if it could even be categorised as such) for a rather self-evident reason - otherwise, due to its simplicity, Fayer would usually have assigned a random rookie (who, even then, would still have been trained on a decent level) for the task.

Now, the bird Nick has murdered and hid about ten minutes ago was from the species of Saw-whet Owls (or Aegolius funereus, as it depended on one's proficiency and personal preference), and, when crossing-over into this world for his mission, so did Miles become a bird of the same species - in fact, he was the only Saw-whet in the entire body of Fayer's team; a valuable asset when it came to missions like this one, but this has also made him a heavy liability, if he would have happened to be in a troubleful situation - however, this "Sylvya" was not assessed to be a potential threat, and was therefore not counted as a risk.

Albeit the initial and original plan was to take over the identity of the mercilessly murdered owl, Miles has suggested to Fayer that he should modify some parts of this scheme, as he has considered the minor differences between his and the dead owl's physical appearance and vocal-tone to be way too obvious - and this would have made Miles' identity transparent, and would have had a high chance to blow his cover.

After giving it a short, but measured, amount of thought, Fayer has ordered some of his other agents to forge a believable and solid cover-story by doing a bit of reconnaissance here and there in Ambala; to acquire information, which would later help to avoid any holes in Miles' fake story.

When everything was ready, Nick was given the green-light to deploy on his mission, and now, here he was - minutes away from accomplishing it.

And this - all the above - was the reason of why Sylvya's otherwise badly-frightened facial expression has shifted to that of relief and calmness; deeply exhaling, then, while glancing up at Miles (whom she has thought to be someone else), she spoke with a trembling voice.

\- Oh, Glaux! Doctor Fredrick - the female owl has shut her eyes for a second or two, took a very deep breath, then carried on - Sorry, I... I must have been so absorbed in my own thoughts that I have not heard... - at this point, unanticipatedly, it only required a few seconds for the young owl's serenity to be fully faded away.

Her relief and calmness has now been banished from her face by a returning emotion, which has appeared to be an even mix of both distrust and alarm.

\- Wait a second... You are not Fredrick! - presumably undeliberately and potentially non-consciously, Sylvya slowly began to inch away in a backwards motion, as if the corner of her hollow would have offered her any kind of an escape route or a chance of survival.

Not minding her sudden shift of emotions too much, Miles was ready and able to recite his previously mentioned cover-story and its critical-details, and was prepared to give an armada of credible answers as soon as the emotions on the female bird's face have began to transform towards the opposite of trust.

\- You... you are not Fredrick! - she repeated herself with what she probably has wished to sound like an increase in her self-confidence, but, in reality, she has only succeeded to raise her own voice, and even that was only to a minimal degree - Who... who are you? - Sylvya's previously presented "forced-firmness" has now swiftly fell apart, her voice now returning to a barely audible, quivering whisper.

\- Indeed, you are right, I am not Doctor Fredrick, but there is no need for panic, as... - Nick began in a trustworthy-guy's (or typical politician's) tone, really bringing forth that old, Theatrical Arts-degree he earned in what now has felt like a past life - I am his brother. I can imagine that he has talked a lot about me; he informed me that he has a patient waiting, but could not personally make it, so... I am here instead - he concluded with clear self-confidence and two modestly- and welcomingly-opened wings; let alone the same, but not even something similar could have been stated about the female owl.

Seemingly unsatisfied with the response, Sylvya has, from the underside of multiple discarded parchment-mountains, revealed a metal dagger - the kind that must have been a minimum of fifteen years old - which has sent the formerly-mentioned pile of paper into a state of collapse; sighting the weapon, Miles has pretended to flinch.

Not that he was actually afraid of the bladed-weapon - quite the opposite actually; he was pretty unfazed - but he had to maintain his cover as long as it was required; realistically, Nick could have almost effortlessly disarmed the girl - could even have killed her, while he was at it - but Fayer has clearly noted that she is of high importance towards the future-developments of the agency.

Why or how - Miles could not tell just yet. Of course, not as if the chain-of-command and the executives would have involved a common footsoldier like him in their more classified plans...

But none of these have mattered momentarily; it would have been better for Nick to focus on the present as it was starting to play out.

After all, Sylvya was clearly not fooled just yet.

\- Fredrick has never mentioned you! - she raised the dagger, which was quivering so badly in her unsteady talons that it has barely appeared threatening - He has never talked about any relatives! Once again... who are you? - she demanded with a trembling voice, unable to properly get a grip on herself, which has resulted in an even more violently shaking dagger.

\- Please, listen! I can explain, just... just lower that dagger, for Glaux's sake! - begged Miles to Sylvya with some expert acting-skills, and began a slow-but-sure approach towards the bird.

This female owl has definitely not harmed or killed any one of her own kin before, and Miles was fairly sure that he was not going to be her first kill to count.

Once again, it really would have been just a single twist of his talons to break Sylvya's weapon-handling-foot, but simply persuading her to lower the blade was the necessarily-required option in this scenario.

Although there was no initial change at the first glance, Nick could still see as the female owl (first unsurely, but then more decidedly) started to lower her lifted talons; in a matter of seconds, the owl's claws have came in contact with their original resting-point - the floor of the hollow - and Sylvya's grip on the dagger has loosened, right until the point a light gust of the wind could have easily knocked it out from the hold of her uncertain hold.

Seeing that Sylvya's face began to quiver again, the nervousness and the pain of not being able to decide what to do slowly growing inside her - not to mention the relentlessly appearing tears in the corners of her eyes - Miles has inched just a tiny bit closer, to decrease the distance between him and the bird to the approximation of three casual steps (of course, such measurements could only be made from an owl's perspective), hoping that this would, in some way, earn her temporary trust. Then, he spoke once again, his two-faced motives undetectable from his tone.

\- I understand that you are afraid, and that you do not trust me, because you do not know me - his expertly-woven words have not failed to cease the female's trembling; nevertheless, this was the only positive aspect to his words. Everything else was pure deceivement - But whatever you may think, I can assure you that I am telling the truth, and I am only here to help you. Can you trust me on that? - he finished his question off with an inquisitive nod, and was now looking at the owl with an expectant gaze.

After a rather long amount of reconsideration (at least a full minute and counting), Sylvya let out a deep sigh, and threw the rusty dagger into an empty corner.

\- Certainly, it is just in my nature to be ever-cautious since my… condition has come around. I am sorry if I have caused any inconvenience for you, uh… Doctor…? - she began, but realizing that she has not yet heard the "name" of this unknown-to-her owl yet, the female bird's sentence has trailed off to the point where it has turned into a question.

\- Albeit not much was spoken about his maybe-and-maybe-not required alias in his briefing (despite the casual-person's assumption of how important this piece of information must have been), Miles knew exactly what to do in this and similar kinds of situations; Fayer, before this mission, has advised him to improvise, so that was just exactly what he was planning to do.

\- Nicholas. Doctor Nicholas - Nick spoke softly, in an almost honest, trustworthy, and light smile crawling upon his face.

\- Doctor Nicholas - Slyvya nodded, her breathing returning to normal as what Miles has suspected to be her nerves have slowly calmed down; she, now more confidently, walked up to Nick, and extended a talon in the PSRI-agent's direction.

Knowing exactly what to do, he lifted his own right set of claws, and gently shook the female owl's foot, paying extra attention to not to squeeze too hardly - this has succeeded, despite the minor levels of nervousness that were suddenly starting to rise from his stomach.

\- A pleasure, Miss…? - questioned Miles needlessly, as he already knew the answer well-enough; it was only his alias, who was not yet in the possessions of this little information.

\- Slyvya, _Glaucidium passerinum_ , from the Northern-Kingdoms - she listed more than enough information to Nick; not that he did not know all of the previous already, of course…

\- Miss Sylvya, then - smiled the agent, then put his talons back on the floor of the hollow, and decided it was time to begin his so-called "interrogation" - I am going to have to ask you to explain your, uh… - he paused for a short moment, and made sure that it was an awkward silence he was keeping - Do you prefer the name "condition", or would you rather want me to say "ability"? - as he waited for the owl to answer to him, Nick took another quick glance at the carvings of the hollow's walls; those _things_ up there definitely had to do something with her "natural skill", and Miles was already creating pretty accurate theories in his head about them.

\- I would choose to call it a "curse" - sighed Sylvya sadly and weakly, her voice almost starting to tremble again, but, luckily, she was maintaining a decent emotional-stability for now - But I guess "ability" will have to do - although initially the female owl has seemed to have finished her sentence, she has not stayed quiet, and did not waited for Nick to continue; instead, she stated a question that was well-within the category of a "potential-mission-destroyer" - Sorry for asking, but, did Doctor Fredrick tell you about my… _thing_? - a form of uncertainty was present in her voice, from which Miles suspected that him - or rather, his alias - was not supposed to know about Sylvya's ability just yet. A minor mistake which was definitely not going to blow his cover, but it would not hurt him in the future, if he could successfully keep his story straight.

In his own head, Miles imagined that with every single small mistake he made, his cover-story would start to have more curves, as if he was just talking about turns on a road near the mountains of where he grew up; the sharper these turns became, the less chances he had to turn his story back to the acceptable and believable state. If he kept making errors - seen by him as not taking his turns safely and correctly enough - he will eventually fall off of the road at one of these sharp curves, and plummet to his death.

With the female owl's previous question, it was evident that Nick had a harmless, but potentially dangerous hole in his story - of course, these "harmless" holes were just as harmless as the non-dangerous or curable forms of cancer: they said that they are not harmful, but these bold claims would only prove themselves true _very rarely_.

Miles now had a story-hole at his talons now - it was time to mend it.

\- Yes, my brother has actually mentioned it; he told me that it was… highly sensitive information, as, indeed, your case, Miss Sylvya is… _highly_ astonishing - Nick put on a businesslike expression on his face, almost shutting his left eye as he spoke his previous words - However, I would also want to hear the entire story from _your_ side, if that is possible - as he pronounced these words, the PSRI-agent has kept a close eye on the owl, who now, just as he expected, has opened her beak, then shut it close again. At least five times consecutively after each other; it was clear and obvious that she was nervous about something.

Miles knew exactly what this was: she was frightened of her ability so much that she was not yet ready to talk about it openly - maybe that other owl was close enough to her to have succeeded in convincing her, but that was a late sorry, as he dead.

Of course, not that Nick _actually_ felt regret for his death - this was not even his world, not his species; at the end of every single day, this world to him was just the part of a massive operation - an operation funded by the PSRI.

\- Well, I… I do not know if that would work, I mean it is… it is complicated to talk about and I… and I… - her voice was worryingly becoming similar to a sound which was produced between a nervous mental-state, and sobbing; if Nick was wishing to verbally extract the information he required from her _today_ , he had to keep her calm and confident. Like he was some kind of _bloody_ primary-school teacher…

Well, he _was_ bloody, but not in a way the expression was generally interpreted as. Besides, the emphasis was still on the word "was" - after all, Miles removed _all_ feathers from his plumage that were tainted with the dead owl's vital-fluid.

\- Miss Sylvya… I cannot express of how important your well-being is, be it physical or mental, to me, as a doctor - Miles has now gave his heart-touching and determined-doctor-side, so that persuading the bird into talking will happen quicker - I know that it must be extremely hard to talk about this… after all, I have heard from my own brother of how… _shocking_ some of these "happenings" are; but I will need you to set all excuses aside, so that I can help you! - the agent has faked the facial-expression of someone reliable, and sent another grin in the direction of the female owl; to this, she smiled back, took a deep breath, then exhaled in a similar fashion, her almost-crying voice involuntarily shaking as she did so.

\- Well… I guess all I can do is try! - she cleared her throat, and swallowed hard; she was almost ready to talk now.

Although Miles had so stay discreet, especially in the middle of a task, he could almost feel true compassion towards this owl - almost. It was obvious that she was forcing herself through a lot, and watching such suffering on the surface… it was actually heartbreaking, even to him.

Nevertheless, he refocused his mind on the mission, and forced himself back-on-track; this owl was only just what she sounded like - a bird, nothing special for Nick to worry about. Not his world, not his species - why should he have cared?

\- I would never ask for more than that - he nodded slowly to Sylvya, successfully channeling that true compassion he felt just moments ago into a believable act; seeing that the owl was ready to begin now, all Miles had to do was lean back, and listen to her story.

After that, his job would be done, and someone would do the "clean-up" work when it was needed later; they would observe the girl for a little longer, then either capture her for further study, or eliminate her, _if_ she became unimportant - once again, it was not Miles' problem to worry about.

\- It… it all had started about a year ago - she began with a painfully cliché-sounding opening, her voice starting to mercilessly tremble again as she spoke - Back then… me and my father still lived in the Northern-Kingdoms, in the nameless-forests that were near the border of the kingdoms. My mother has left in illness soon after I hatched, and I was still very young in those days… - her words would have gave a sufficient description to anyone, but Nick could actually relate to the place, as, a few weeks back, he was given an assignment near those areas; it was nothing more than a casual recon-flyby, but Miles had to admit that the bird's-eye-view was something rather unique when one could physically fly - I can remember that morning perfectly well; it was the day before my first branching, and that can make any young hatchling jump around in excitement. I was no different - Sylvya has now turned her head and stared towards some old, distant place; she gave out a nostalgic sigh, still with a smaller amount of tremble in her voice, but continued on nonetheless.

\- It is hard to recall how everything happened, but… I can remember that my Da has just arrived back from hunting, and was telling me a story of how even he could not keep himself still the day before _his_ first branching, and then… - at this point, the female owl's voice almost broke from something, and she had to clear her throat to avoid this; she has now turned her gaze back to Miles, who could see that a shadow has fell on her face. Whatever story was going to come out from her in the following minutes, Nick has wholeheartedly suspected that it was not going to be a merry one.

\- …And then, there was this sudden and abrupt… _flash_ , then everything went black for some time - Sylvya has now broke eye-contact with Miles, and was scanning all-around the floor of the hollow, as if she was looking for something that might be captivating enough to distract her troubled mind. Despite a visibly detailed search, the owl has not spotted anything overly interesting, and continued to recite her memories in a low, quiet voice - When I woke up, I first thought that I have came to my senses, but soon realized that this was not the case: I was unconscious; I… could not really say how I knew, I just simply… _felt_ that I was not awake - as she said the latter, the bird accompanied her words with gestures, which she did with her talons; she has first used one of her right ones to point at her head, then opened her entire and same foot, just like someone who was perplexed by a hard-to-explain happening. After doing the previous movements, she carried on - And in that state, I could… see something; first very vividly, but then everything became sharp and clear, like in some kind of… early waking-state. It took me a moment to realize that what I was seeing was… my own hollow… I mean, it was my Da's at the time, but... but we both lived there so… - Sylvya, at this point, has, without a warning, stopped, and turned her head away for another time; although the PSRI-agent was unclear on this, but he was fairly sure that the bird was on the verge of falling into an uncontrollable state of sobbing.

Miles had the theory in his head that the female was just dancing around the fire, and did not wished to get to the main point just yet; however, by this time, Nick was too afraid to make even just a minor move. After all, the bird was talking, and that was all he needed - if he scared her off now… who knows how long it would have took for him (or someone else) to persuade her into talking again.

\- It has felt like a dream, but I knew that it was more real than a dream; still not _real_ enough for it to be reality, but… it was more _physical_ than a dream - she spoke again, her head still turned away, which has resulted in her voice becoming slightly muffled; no worry was raised in the agent though, as he could still hear everything perfectly - As I looked around in the… "dream-version" of my hollow, I could see my Da, standing in the middle of our home, leaning over someone's body - here, the bird has sighed, and continued with a quivering voice, which has not seemed to be the kind which was going to go away or ease up in the near future - I slowly walked over, and… saw that my Da was leaning over _my_ body, pressing his ear-slits against my chest, then gently to my beak, as if he was checking if I was still breathing… First I believed that I have… _died_ … and thought myself to be a _scroom_ … but then I spotted that my… "physical-body's" chest was still rising and sinking, and… - Sylvya has now gave out a light, somewhat confident little laugh, as if she was thinking that her own story was so unreal that it has became a matter of a joke; the female owl has then turned her amber eyes back towards Nick, established a solid eye-contact, and continued to speak - I first noticed the unfamiliar shadow appearing behind Da, and I tried to turn my head, but it was like… it was like I was unable to control my movements anymore, and then… - she has first began with a stable-sounding certainty, but this soon has slowly collapsed into an absolute disaster; Miles could already see the first signs, and these were the mercilessly-emerging tears in not only the corner, but all around her eyes - And then… there was so much... there was so much… Oh, Glaux! - and _here_ , the owl's fight with her own fragile emotions and tears was lost, and Sylvya broke down into a crying and sobbing heap of feathers.

First reminding his own self that he was not here to consult emotionally-unstable owls, Nick hesitated, and then observed for a few seconds as her target-of-interrogation has descended into a state where her constant flow of tears has pushed Miles to the borderline of becoming honestly heavy-hearted and sorry towards her.

But then, the PSRI-agent had to realize that he was not this immoral, and could not bear himself to simply stand around and watch a young, probably innocent soul to just simply cry her eyes out… He calmly approached the sobbing Sylvya, and unfolded both of his wings, which he has gently wrapped around the female owl as much as it was possible; although he has felt the next part to be a bit awkward (to him only), but Miles has still leaned just a tiny bit closer to the crying bird, and began to comfort her by periodic "shh" sounds, which he has produced in a soothing tone.

Miles knew that he just broke a not so easily-forgivable point of their general operations-protocol, but PSRI-agent or not, aliases and undercover operations or not, there had to be a personal limit for Nick of where he has going to draw the line - he was a trained ex-military operative, and, yes, he could kill without second thoughts when he was required to… but he was not heartless; besides, consoling this little owl was only going to play towards his act as this "Doctor Nicholas". No one had to know about this anyway; he could just… forget to mention it in his debrief. He was only here to obtain information, and he had to do absolutely everything to not fail this objective; what he was doing now was still keeping within his protocols' rules, was it not?

Yeah; he would just kept telling himself that all the time - that would chase all doubts about the PSRI's operation away from his head.

\- Doctor, you could not possibly imagine how… _terrible_ it was to watch him _die_ in that... cursed vision! Oh, Glaux, there was so much blood… - sobbed Slyvya into Miles shoulders, which has snapped him out of his thoughts; not even truly thinking about his response, and really just acting out of an empathetic-instinct, Nick has quieted the owl down, and has spoke to her in a calming whisper.

\- Quiet now - he said, giving out another "shh" sound to emphasize his point - Just calm down first, then you can carry on - he was now feeling himself fully back-on-track, and could now hear this in his own voice; most of his words were not honest anymore, but were still expertly-spoken enough to be convincing.

The agent's wholehearted empathy and sorry has now only became a lie again - nothing more than just a practiced and rehearsed lie. That thing he had just a minute ago… he thought of it as nothing; momentary emotions coming through, but… when he ignored them for a bit, they usually went away rather soon. _Usually…_

After he was entirely positive that Sylvya's emotional-levels have returned to the near-stable range, Nick has allowed his wings to slip off of her feathers (which he has only now noticed to be rather soft and silky, when compared to his own), and swiftly backed away, leaving enough space-to-breath for the still mildly-distressed owl.

\- You all good? - he cocked his head slightly to the right, the spark of a doctor's faked inquiry reflecting from his eyes.

\- I think so, Doctor… - replied the female bird; the feathers around her eyes were soaked with her tears (which, even when they did, owls did not shed as much as humans), and she was still sniffling through the nostrils of her beak.

"Strange; I never knew that these birds were even able to do that", thought Miles, but has decided to leave it at only that.

\- Then feel free to continue with your story where you have… left off, Miss Sylvya - the agent was now assured that it was only a matter of moments before the bird would finally cough up what he wanted to hear: a vague, but usable description of what this "ability" she possesses is able to do.

Not like he was just about to successfully pull off the heist of a nuclear-bomb from a secure, underground-complex, that was true, but… to the PSRI, these pieces of information were priceless, and crucial.

\- Where I have left off… all right… - whispered the owl, and bowed her head towards the floor of the hollow; while she did as so, Nick could have sworn that he saw another one, maybe two drops of tears falling downwards from her eyes - As I have said, in the vision… I saw my father die. He was… _stabbed_ … by this Snowy I have never seen before… Even today, I still do not know who it was, and why they have done it… - another sniffle, a short moment of silence, then a deep breath signifying that Sylvya was ready to proceed - And, after that was done, everything swam away into the darkness, and… I woke up; I was back in reality, in our hollow - here, another doleful shadow fell on her face, and the bird was seemingly having difficulties to continue with her account; however, when Miles was about to take a breath and ready his vocal chords for a little encouragement, the owl has managed to force enough bravery into herself to carry on speaking - It was then that… that I saw my Da leaning over me, and… and… - the bird was forcing herself the best she could, and there was no problem with that; the real issue was that Miles was not able to take a grip on himself, and could not keep his own beak shut.

\- And? What happened _then_? - he questioned, almost whispering the words with a mix of true curiosity and mild excitement; after his previous words have _actually_ reached his brain, the agent almost cringed at his own carelessness. Lucky to him, Slyvya was too preoccupied to notice any of the male's sentences.

Unexpectedly, she glanced up, causing a minor shock to Miles, who has masterfully concealed his slight fright.

\- And then, everything happened _again_. Just like in my vision. My Da was murdered in the front of my very eyes - she guided her own gaze somewhere else in the hollow, and allowed a trembling sigh to leave her beak - Sometimes, in my dreams, I still relive those minutes… And the blood… there was so much blood everywhere… - yet another short pause has followed, then the owl has swallowed what Nick has thought to be all the emotional pain that has wheeled up inside her in the past minutes; even Miles was able to hear it - When it was finally finished, and my Da was… dead… the Snowy has turned to me, her bloody dagger still freshly tainted with blood, and said, "That is what your Da deserves for not agreeing with the ideologies of the _The Counsellors_ ", then told me to pay my Da's due, in food rations, in less than four days, or I will be next. Of course, I have not even started to branch back then, let alone hunting, and asked for the help of some… old family friends; they moved me down here and took care of me until I was able to care for myself alone, but they said that their hearts are calling them to the North, not the South, and have left, roughly six months ago - she spoke with a slight, sad hint of nostalgia, then, as if nothing had happened, she turned her head back to Miles, and then used her right wing to gesture towards the carvings, which were previously observed by the agent.

\- What are those, if I may…? - trailed off Miles, now observing each carving even more closely than he previously has; of course, he did not wished to get accommodated to strongly with them, as an ice-cold chill still ran down his spine when he took even just a glance at them.

\- Moving away and not dying did not helped my case, as I still get these… _flashes_ , sometimes, and even in the past days, I could see this… Short-eared Owl… and, another one… a Spotted Owl, I think… the former murdering the latter in cold blood, without any signs of mercy - she pointed to one of the more fresh-looking carving (Nick suspected that it was newer, as the red fluid that surrounded some of the outlines was more brighter than on the others); the "illustration" was depicting as a Short-eared Owl, with the help of a weapon that closely resembled a dagger, gouged out what seemed to be the eyes of the Spotted Owl. The only clues that allowed Miles to identify the species shown by the carvings were Sylvya's own words, and the barely-noticeable characteristics and details of the two birds in the "image".

Our agent knew exactly well of who those two owls were in the carving: the murderer was Agent Zwegger, and the "victim" was that trouble-maker CIA-operative, something-Losold - Miles was not involved too directly with that operation; without blinking an eye, Nick pretended that he had no clue of who the birds were on the carving, and even made a puzzled face, as if he was actively attempting to guess of who those two could have been - apparently, this has worked, as the female owl's further actions were not suggestive of the contrary.

\- But that is only one of the many, as you can see… - she extended her right wing again, and touched the wall of the hollow with her primary-feathers, slowly sliding them across one of the carvings - This was the first one after my Da's death, if I recall correctly… In that vision, I saw a Barn owl being torn apart by a wild cat… I thought that her hunt must have gone wrong - she let off a sad grin as she folded her wing, breaking the physical contact between her feathers, and the carving showing _Tyto alba_ in two, distinct, and separate pieces, her head raised towards the sky, her wings torn off… It was not a lovely image to be recreated inside one's head.

\- …Or that one… that was the one that came after I got through my proper branching - she pointed up towards a third carving, which showed some larger-sized owl, once again, murdering another bird of its own species - In that vision, I could not determine what has caused the… death; all I know is that there was this loud… _explosion_ … then the victim just… did not had his head attached to his neck anymore… - Sylvya pointed once again, but this time at what Miles has presumed to be the murder-weapon, a less-, but enough-detailed carving for Nick to immediately recognize of what it was.

Keeping his now honest surprise hidden this time, the agent suddenly realized that he actually knew about the murder that was depicted in this carving as well, as the murder-weapon was the standard-issue, .32 ACP Walther PPK of Special Agent Malcolm Fayer - the only ballistic-firearm the PSRI has managed to "send" over to this side, along with a box of matching ammunition; however advanced the agency's technology was, playing "postal-service" between two realities was not an easy task.

What is more, Miles has even heard about this incident - very briefly only, though: something got to one of the agents in the team - Agent Bregen - who has decided to abandon the PSRI, and has retreated from Fayer's wrath into the wilderness (which is rather unspecific, as this entire _world_ was not just a massive wilderness, of course).

Bregen has done all he could to cover his tracks, but he forgot that he was dealing with a professional. Soon enough, the Special Agent has discovered his location, ambushed him, and took a single shot at Bregen's head; a metal projectile at such a velocity, crashing into such a relatively small-sized bird's head… it was no wonder that Bregen has passed away with his head not being attached to his neck.

\- Why do you record them by carving them into the wall? - asked Miles, turning his eyes towards Sylvya as he did so.

\- Well… sometimes, when the visions simply just cannot be chased away… I found that carving them into the walls makes them stop; a bit of a… painful price to pay, you see, Doctor… - she lifted one of her foot to head-level, and showed her talons to Nick; most of them were covered in clotted blood - But I would rather choose the minor pain than to risk the loss of my mind. Even then, writing, or simply just drawing these visions onto paper help them go away as well… but this only happens very rarely, though - she nodded towards the piece of paper-parchment she crumpled up when Miles has first accosted her.

\- I see. Could you tell me about any of the other… - he began to form another question, but was not able to finish his sentence, as a collection of abrupt and loud shouts from the outside of the hollow have distracted him, and the female owl he was about to question, as well.

Turning his head all the way around, Miles clicked his beak in annoyance, and slowly walked over to the entrance of the hollow, hoping to eavesdrop on whatever loud conversation that was happening outside of this tree.

For the first few seconds, there was nothing, but silent, unintelligible whispers and not-as-loud words, but then, out of the nightfall's graying-sky, three owls rushed into the hollow, forcefully pushing Nick to the side, who was lucky enough, and a pile of discarded parchments have softened his impact against the floor of the hollow; only of Sylvya would have been _this_ fortunate.

One of the currently-intruding and -unknown owls have literally jumped onto the poor female owl, and have tackled her to the floor, keeping one set of talons on her throat (not overly gently), and another collection of claws on her left wing, keeping the latter limb in a seemingly painful angle - almost as if the hostile-appearing owl was about to break it.

\- Are you Sylvya, _Glaucidium passerinum_ , from the Northern-Kingdoms? - shouted the same bird the demand into the disoriented and confused female owl's terror-struck, feathered face, the latter barely being able to hold back her slowly appearing tears again.

Since no response was given by the startled Sylvya, her captor has let go of her wing, and reached towards the underside of _his_ left wing, where, tied to the owl's leather belt, was a metal dagger's scabbard, with the aforementioned weapon included in it; this, the owl has hastily unsheathed - however, to maintain his balance, he had to shift his body's weight to his left foot. The one and the same he was holding Sylvya's throat with; this has almost suffocated the poor female bird.

\- I am not going to ask again, do you hear me?! - screamed the male owl with small droplets of saliva leaving his beak; he lowered the blade to the side of Sylvya's neck, and pressed it close to her carotid artery. Nick knew that, from this point, it was only a matter of even just a weak push of that dagger to end the bird's life, forever.

The PSRI-agent could not hold himself back for any longer. So far, he only stayed put because of the surprise that was caused by the appearance of these three owls - but seeing that they were threatening this female with a weapon… protocols or not, mission-objectives or not… Nick did not really give a single damn anymore.

\- Hey, what the hell do you think you are doing?! - he struggled out from the heap of papers that were covering his body, and headed towards the male owl who was currently on top of Sylvya; however, as he was just about to pick up the pace, another one of the three intruders have jumped in front of him, attempting to block his way. Deciding that this was clearly not enough to stop him in his tracks, Miles simply used his right wing to forcefully push the bird aside (and that was barely taller than him - a Burrowing Owl - so this has not appeared to be a massive challenge).

Nonetheless, miscalculations and non-expected turns can happen in any individual's plan, and momentarily, Nick was not in a position not so different: the Burrowing Owl, instead of allowing himself to be pushed aside, and the PSRI-agent to get past him, locked his own wing into the one Miles was using to forcefully walk next to him - which has halted the agent - and has shoved Nick backwards with a lifted foot - and, for the record, all this the bird has done surprisingly smoothly and swiftly, as if he was trained for such situations.

Staggering for a moment to regain his balance, Miles has swore quietly to himself, throwing such extreme curses and insults at the Burrowing Owl that he almost felt regret about it. After this, he walked back up to the bird again, and hissed his verbal reaction to the previous treatment between the bottom and top parts of his beak.

\- You do anything like that again, and I will break your wings - Nick has came face-to-face with the owl, and assessed him from claw to eyes, and back down again; the agent has also took an extra note of the green-coloured, beret-shaped headdress on the Burrowing Owl's head.

\- I will have to take that as a threat, owl; now, back off! - the male bird has raised his voice, but was not brave enough to push Miles away for another time; meanwhile, behind this owl, his colleague (the one who has pinned Sylvya to the ground, whom Nick has now visually identified as a Long-eared Owl) has seemed to have finally received a response to his demand, as the immobilized female was now nodding with such speed that her head almost fell off of her neck.

Of course, this has not reduced the Long-eared Owl's volume-of-voice - if anything, he was only emboldened by the received response to shout louder.

\- Sylvya, _Glaucidium passerinum_ , from the Northern-Kingdoms! - the male began again, sheathing his dagger, but still keeping a stone-fist-like grip on the female's throat with his left talons - By the Authority of the Ambalan-Legion, I take you into custody, for the suspected murder of Fredrick Finewind, Doctor; you will be taken to the Island of Ga'Hoole, where your sentence shall be decided, if there will be any. Nod, if you understand me! - to avoid any further complications, Sylvya has began to nod swiftly in her "panic-mode" again; the tears rolling down and across her face were clearly visible by this stage.

\- Hey, you there! - shouted Miles towards the Long-eared Owl, barely being able to talk across the Burrowing Owl, who constantly kept trying to block his way, so that he would not be able to establish a solid eye contact; despite the latter's attempts, Nick was still able to attract a glance from the former, and this was well-enough for their gazes to meet, and stay like that - Yeah, that is right! I am talking to you there, _Asio_! - since he, obviously, did not know the owl's name, _and_ has not felt himself to be in the position where he could just loudly proclaim his personal thoughts about these three owls and their green berets, Nick has simply used the Latin Genus of the Long-eared Owl, hoping that it would have, at least, just a minimally-offensive effect.

\- Let him, Bernard! - waved the male at the Burrowing Owl with a wing, telling his (apparently) subordinate to stop actively and industriously blocking Miles' way; "Just in time", thought Nick, as he was not too far from carrying out that so-called threat he threw at the owl in his way with all the emotions coming from the deep of his heart - What is it, owl? - questioned the Long-eared Owl with an authoritative tone-of-voice, almost managing to sound patronizing, but ultimately failing to do so.

\- What do you honestly think you are doing here? You barge in here and detain my patient, forcefully? Who in Hagsmire do you think you are?! - asked Nick with a non-pretended frustration and anger, the only untrue words in his vocabulary being "Hagsmire" and "patient"; those two were only there, so that his cover would not be blown.

\- I am afraid that this business does not concerns you, owl! - declared the Long-eared Owl, and ordered his associate, who was going by the name of "Bernard", to escort Sylvya outside - We are taking here away now, like it or not - he paused for a moment, not breaking the now not only solid, but also rather tense eye-contact - My other associate will stay here with you for the meantime, and discuss the procedure you will be required to take, so that we can make sure that you were not an accomplice in this murder - and, with this and no more, he exited the hollow himself; the third and last bird from his team, a Barn Owl, has now stood in front of and blocked the exit.

Miles was sure of one, singular thing: he was _definitely not_ going to wait here for hours, so that his (or, at least, his fake identity's) name could be washed clean of no dirt. He sent a friendly and trustworthy smile towards the Barn Owl, who, to his greatest surprise, has reciprocated the facial-gesture.

\- No need to worry, you know. I am not the kind who would run away from a… "crime-scene"; as a Doctor, my reputation is one of my most important things - as he spoke, Nick has carefully shuffled closer and closer to one of the paper-piles; non-verbally responding to his words, the Barn Owl simply nodded a few times, then began to speak himself.

\- Well, I will trust you there; my brother, Deciptus, has went on to become a Doctor himself, but not the type you are… - probably thinking to himself that Nick was trustable enough (which, in this case, he was) to not make a "run-and-fly" for it, the bird has now wandered deeper into the hollow, his eyes catching and almost sticking like glue to the wall of the hollow that has contained all of Sylvya's bloody carvings.

\- Is that so? - asked back Miles to gain himself more time, and found the object under the parchments that he was searching for in the first place; pressing it against his barely-feathered chest with one wing, the agent began to cautiously approach behind the Barn Owl, who just continued to share his family-history.

\- Yes; he trained to be a field-surgeon in the lines of the Ambalan-Region. I would say that we ended up in the same place, really, but he would claim that his and my positions are awfully dissimilar - the bird kept staring at each one of the carvings, shaking his head as he spoke.

\- Interesting - by this time, Nick was just centimeters away from the Barn Owl's back - What is your name, if I may ask? - inquired the agent, and readied all of the muscles in his body.

\- Claudius - answered the bird, sounding a bit confused, but still not turning around - Why? - he asked back, probably expecting some kind of truly smart reply his question.

\- So that, if no one else, at least I will remember you - spoke Miles with only half the volume of his voice, almost as if he was mumbling some kind of a prayer; with lightning-fast movements, he used his left wing to knock the Barn Owl's beret to the floor of the hollow, then lifted himself into the air with a swift and single wing-stroke, and, from that position, he raised his right foot, his talons strongly gripping Sylvya's unused, rusty dagger, then drove the blade through the back of Claudius' skull, allowing gravity to do the rest of the work for him: he kept a firm grip on the weapon's handle right until that, along with the owl's head, has came into contact with the floor of the hollow.

The dagger has cut through the skull like a hot knife through butter, and has managed to totally destroy the _Cerebellum_ \- this has left no doubt about the Barn Owl's current condition.

Miles has now forcefully removed the weapon from the late Claudius' fractured skull, and watched for a second as the bird's bright-red blood has began to speedily flow out of the hole of where the lethal cranial-penetration has occurred; appalled by the sight, Nick has shuddered for the second time today, and turned away, throwing the metal dagger out into the night, hoping that the underbrush would hide it long enough from inquisitive eyes.

Miles has now reached for the green, not-bloodstained beret, which he has knocked off the bird's head with a logical reason, and placed it on his own head; it was a bit larger, due to the size differences between Saw-whet Owls and Barn Owls, but this was not a problem that was unsolvable - after all, Nick would only be required to wear this thing for only as long as it was required for anyone to be fooled by its presence.

Agent Miles has now decided to… extend the time and field of this operation, due to circumstances that could not be foreseen by anyone: that bloody Ambalan-Legion again… They did not bother Fayer and his operatives' operations too much, but, when such incidents arose… lethal-force was always authorized.

So this was exactly what Nick was now planning on doing - in his debrief, he could just state that these three (Claudius, Bernard, and their self-pretentious leader) knew too much about the subject's ability, and thus became a hazard and risk towards the operation - and that would be that. After all, it was not like Fayer was going to reprimand him for murdering these owls, was he? That man had even more despise against these creatures than Miles currently had, so, logically, he should have been more understanding on the topic.

No one had to know that Miles was only heading into this vendetta, because he was just simply unable to stand by as that poor owl has suffered. Once again, he would just keep telling himself that he was only doing this to benefit the mission - to gather more intelligence on Sylvya and her displayed ability; to eliminate two targets who knew too much - and everything would be fine. _Just like it always was…_

Shaking these types of thoughts out of his head (and the beret _off_ of his head), Agent Miles has now headed towards the entrance of the hollow, dragging the dead Claudius with himself. When the corpse was close enough to the edge, Nick gave it a light push, and the body, in a matter of seconds, has plummeted into the ground with a suppressed, almost non-audible sound.

He scanned around for a few seconds to make sure that there was nobody else in his close vicinity, and after that, he grasped the beret with his right talons, gave his wings a few flaps, then lifted off into the young night - the perfect time to travel around as a PSRI-agent, as this would raise no suspicion, when compared to daylight-flights, which obviously were less discreet (when regarded from the perspective of the _real_ owls of this world).

Miles took a deep breath of the fresh air the wind was blowing into his face, and began to quietly hum an old song from one of his favorite rock-bands - it was a quite long flight from here to the Island, and Nick has wished to keep himself entertained somehow, so that he would not fall asleep mid-air.

The night was still young, and Miles had so much to do - and, may this be noted: infiltrating the Great Ga'Hoole Tree under a false identity to assassinate two targets was not one of the simplest jobs in this world.

Nonetheless, Nick has determined that he was going to do it - whatever the costs may be.


	4. Dusk-Time Routine

**So, this story has been on hiatus for at least a year, if not more, and I was surprised to see that people were still reading it.  
** **Anyway, I was busy for the past, well, year, and could rarely find time to come back to this story. But that doesn't really matter, because I have more time to work on this story now.  
** **And yes, I know, this is a short chapter, but I will try to make them a bit longer in the near future. Until then, happy reading!**

 _ **I do not own the Guardians of Ga'Hoole series.  
** **I take all characters and organisations that do not belong to Kathryn Lasky as my own characters and creations.**_

Dusk-Time Routine

 _Parliament Hollow, Great Ga'Hoole Tree, Southern-Kingdoms_

 _Close to 7:12 p.m._

 _Valery, GHID_

She watched in silence and unbreakable attention as the Great Gray Owl read through a series of parchments as he sat on one of the side-perches of the Council's Circle - a single, long, half-circle-shaped branch, divided up into multiple sections for all of the Council's members to sit on during a meeting, or something less meaningful that has resembled a meeting.

The writing the above mentioned owl was reading through was a collection of Valery's latest reports and evaluations of the past days' events - one of these happenings was one of the most unusual things she has experienced so far in her GHID-career at Ga'Hoole: the appearance of one, specific owl of yet unseen species, self-identified by the name "Markson"...

Valery, the Short-eared Owl now looked up as he heard her superior Colonel's, Gareth's voice - however, she only heard his voice, not his words. "So much for _unbreakable attention_...", she thought to herself, about herself.

– Sorry, sir, say again? – the owl refocused her gaze at Gareth, who has sent a look of disbelief and annoyance toward her.

After a moment of pause, the Great Gray shook his head, sighed aloud, and beat the parchments he held in his left talon against the branch he was perched on. It was then, that he spoke.

– Lance-Corporal, you know how badly I hate to lecture my subordinates – he left his beak open in a weird, and... snobbish angle when he not spoke, but was in the middle of a thought; a regular sign that showed his frustration – But, please, could you remind me of the GHID's three key values? – the bird has now cocked his head to the right, and sent a self-confident smile towards Valery.

However, the Short-eared Owl was not this easily intimidated into submission; being one of the more "by the book" members of the GHID, she has spent days of learning the past history of the group off by heart during her first days of recruitment, and, even now, five years later, could recite all phrases of those books off the top of her head.

Of course, she has not actually considered this to be something of high importance, and therefore has now attempted to maneuver herself out of the way of Gareth's game.

– Sir, what does this has to do with...? – she began with hesitation, but her Colonel appeared unfazed, proven by his answer.

– Consider it an order, Lance-Corporal – replied the Great Gray, not altering his head's position in any way.

Valery suppressed a sigh, and held herself back from saying anything she could have regretted in the future; as much as this Colonel was brilliant at his job and position... the more of a nuisance he was as an individual.

– The three core values of the GHID, as phrased by Colonel Norwick at the day of its establishment, are loyalty, courage, and honesty – she raised her voice as if she was answering to a teacher with proudness, only to show to Gareth that whatever he wanted to achieve with this, it was certainly not going to be this easy.

– And the group's primary aim and mission is to...? – continued the Colonel with the same facial expression and self-loving tone of voice.

– It is to not allow any crime or wrongful activity to occur, and, in the case that it does occur, to investigate it with outstanding proficiency, and efficiency – as she spoke, Valery kept a close eye on her super, who, in the past few seconds, has returned to the reading of the parchments held in his talons.

– And what is required to achieve outstanding proficiency and efficiency? – he asked again, not even bothering to glance up (or, in this case, down) at Valery.

The female owl has opened her beak for speech, but then understood, in her head, what she was about to say – it was exactly what Gareth wanted to hear right now.

Letting her frustration go about how easily she was just pulled into this trap, Valery said: – The uttermost attention to even the most minuscule detail in each and every thing – she recited with unmatchable accuracy, then, before the Colonel could react, swiftly added: – And I realise, _sir_ , that you only lectured me because I lost focus just a moment ago. But I wanted to add, only for the record, that I was thinking about the exact same individual whom I have mentioned in my reports.

– Oh, really? – Gareth asked with pretended curiosity, greatly extending the second word in his question – And? Have you managed to draw any conclusions?

– In fact, yes – Valery tilted her head to the left – I realised that, due to him being a current person of interest, maybe I should excuse myself, and head over to his hollow. Preferably _right now_ – the female owl smiled, then awaited Gareth's response.

The Great Gray, for a few seconds, seemingly began to think about his next sentence: according to the GHID's rules, Valery had all the rights to be dismissed if one of her cases required her immediate attention - and, suffice to say, this "Markson" was a rather _important_ someone to be looked after.

Although Valery personally would have rather used the word 'babysitted'.

– Alright, you win this round, Lance-Corporal – smirked the Colonel, and tucked the parchments under his belt – Dismissed. But do not use this time to eat your dinner early. If you do, remember, I _will_ find out.

Valery raised her right wing to the blue beret atop her head, and saluted to Gareth: – You knew me for a few years now, sir. You know as well as anyone that I would never neglect my duties because of food – and, with this, she already took into the air, and began to glide towards the exit of the Council's Parliament Hollow.

Behind her, however, she could still her Gareth's booming voice, shouting one last order after her: – And Lance-Corporal Valery! Since this "Markson" stopped acting in a hostile manner, you can put your _time of need_ act aside, and finally put on some clothes!

At this, Valery rolled her eyes, but still decided to take a short - _very_ short - detour towards her own hollow, which was located near the top of the Great Tree, the spot were all members of the GHID had their private residences; during her minute-long flight, she watched as the Sun slowly descended below the horizon of this world - the waking call to all owls - and ultimately allowed the blanket of darkness to cover the sky.

However, now that Valery thought about it, she never considered this specific darkness to be treacherous, or sinister: no, this type of darkness provided her with a kind of calmness, and a sense of belonging - one that she couldn't quite explain.

But, at the end of the day, she always considered these feelings to be natural.

As Valery gracefully lighted down on her hollow's outside perch, she heard a set of wings flap behind her; turning around instinctively, the female owl spotted Ryley, the messenger of the Great Tree flying straight towards her, wings beating up and down in a swift manner - which explained why his wingbeats were audible.

As he spiraled around to reduce his immense speed, Valery noticed that the Burrowing Owl didn't have his usual paper-carrying equipment on his back. Instead, there was only a single, lonely parchment tucked under his belt. Ryley now handed this over as he hovered mid-air.

– Thanks, Ryley – Valery took the rolled-up paper, then tilted her head curiously to the right – You don't appear to have your bag.

The Burrowing Owl hesitated for a second, then said: – Well... I haven't officially began tonight's shift yet, but, uh... your message seemed important enough to be delivered early.

– Oh? – Valery raised a brow, then quietly chuckled – Did you happen to read what this message says, then?

– Well, uh... No, no I haven't! – said Ryley quickly and defensively, then couldn't find any words for a moment or two – It's just that your messages always tend to be important – the Burrowing Owl muttered softly.

– Aha – Valery nodded with her beak slightly open – I see – she added, and was sure that if it would have been physically possible, the tiny messenger would have turned red there and then.

– Anyway, I should go, get ready for my, you know. 'Official duty' – he gestured behind with his highly flexible head, turning it all the way around, then back again, slowly starting to hover away from Valery.

– You go do that – the female owl nodded, then turned to face the inside of her hollow. However, she felt that her words came out a bit too harshly, and because of this, she quickly added: – And thank you again for the early delivery! – but as she turned her head around, Valery saw that Ryley already disappeared.

The Short-eared Owl now sighed sadly, now thinking that her farewell sounded more like an order than a casual goodbye. She unrolled the small piece of paper with her right foot's talons, then read the neatly and ceremonially written words:

 _Two rookies from the Ambalan Legion coming in tonight at the Southern- Platforms, they reported that they found and captured someone with knowledge about and ties to the Tyto-Murders. Please coordinate with them once they arrive._

 _Captain Bergheise_

The female owl memorized the time and location, then rolled up the small parchment, and stashed it somewhere inside the satchel tied to her belt. She wasn't planning on forgetting about these orders, but, for now, they could wait.

Currently, she had other matters to attend to.

As she stepped inside her hollow, Valery immediately targeted the wooden chest to her left, which was well hidden behind a large stack of anomaly reports, a couple of books, and a half rolled-up map of both the Southern- and Northern-Kingdoms.

Gently sweeping the objects in her way aside with a wing, she stepped in front of the chest, and, with one foot, flipped the lock, then opened up the top. A sweet aroma of spring apples gently arose from the small storage, and Valery glanced inside.

All her clothes and various garments were at the same place she left them last time; "As if that has ever changed", she thought to herself, then reached inside with her talons.

From the deepest abyss of the chest, she recovered four pieces of clothing: first, her grayish-blue undershirt with two holes at its sides, then for the second and third time, her green cape, and a red, triangular, woven scarf. And lastly, she picked up her beret, coloured as blue as the ocean below, adorned by the golden, leaf-shaped pin of the GHID.

Without pausing for a moment, Valery poked her wings through the undershirt's holes, which kept the clothing fixed on her chest and back. Then, she threw the cape over her shoulders, and tied it at her neck with the help of her beak and talons. Next, she did the same with the scarf, only this time she turned her head all the way around. And finally, she slapped the beret on the top of her head, and adjusted it slightly, so that her badge was positioned roughly above her right eye.

Now fully dressed and ready, Valery closed the chest back down, but as she was about to turn towards the exit of her hollow, her eyes caught the glint of her dagger, which was stashed behind the aforementioned furniture.

The pristine ice-dagger,neatly sheathed in its scabbard, quietly lay in the corner; if Valery remembered correctly, the weapon has been this way for months now.

However, after the infiltration that happened yesterday, she considered that carrying it with herself, somehow concealed under her cape, wouldn't be such a horrible idea.

"But that is not our way", she thought finally, and took her eyes off of the weapon, "A Guardian's primary mission is not to kill, but to apprehend and execute the law". And, with this thought, she flapped her wings, and flew out of her hollow, spiraling downwards as she headed for this "Markson's" current dwelling.

A couple of seconds later, she was already hastily walking through one of the interior corridors of the tree, and after a minute of doing so, took a left turn, then continued for a while: right up until the point where she reached her destination.

Slowly and silently, she entered the hollow where, if he hasn't lost grip on reality again, Markson was supposed to be.

However, Valery's worries dissipated once she saw that the owl of unknown species wasn't missing; in fact, he was already up and awake watching the horizon through the opening of this hollow, only his back showing towards the female owl.

Valery cleared her throat, then spoke up: – Good to see that you're up, Markson. Slept well?

Then, she awaited his response.


	5. There Are Always Newcomers At Ga'Hoole

**So, originally, this chapter was supposed to be updated three days ago, but my internet gave up on me, that's why it's a bit late this time.  
But now it's uploaded, and that's really the important point.**

 _ **I do not own the Guardians of Ga'Hoole series.  
** **I take all characters and organisations that do not belong to Kathryn Lasky as my own characters and creations.**_

There Are Always Newcomers at Ga'Hoole

 _Markson's Hollow, Great Ga'Hoole Tree, Southern-Kingdoms_

 _Close to 7:34 p.m._

 _Markson, ex-TSA_

– Good to see that you're up, Markson. Slept well? – Valery's strict, and yet calming voice sounded behind his back, breaking the silent moment of respect Markson paid towards the disappearing Sun.

Averting his eyes from what he could still see from the burning star, the ex-marshal now took a hundred-and-eighty degrees turn, so that he could face the freshly arrived Valery.

Then, he drew a breath, and opened his beak for speech: – Taking the crazy events of the past few days, I, myself, am surprised that I was even capable of sleeping – he smiled, then, borderline confused, asked – What's with the clothes? I haven't seen those on you before.

The Short-eared owl chuckled at this: – The past few days had me extremely occupied; so badly, in fact, that I never found the time to put these on. Only the beret, but nothing else.

– I see – Markson responded, but the slight hint of confusion hasn't yet left his face – I never noticed any other owls in clothes in the past days either.

– Personally, I would imagine that your brain was too busy processing your current situation, rather than paying attention to details like clothes.

Chris shrugged – I guess you're right. Maybe...

Valery let out a sigh of relief: – Anyway, I'm glad to hear that you sanity is still intact.

As a response to this, Markson furrowed his brows; Valery then hurried to explain herself.

– Don't misunderstand, I didn't mean to call you weak-willed, or mentally unstable. In fact, I intended to say quite the opposite! – the Short-eared Owl raised one foot defensively – What I meant is that what you told me, of what happened to you in the previous days... How you got here...

– A quite unbelievable story, isn't it? – Markson asked pensively, then sighed – I don't mean to sound rude, but... why are you here?

– Why am I here? – Valery asked back, not exactly understanding the ex-marshal's question.

– I mean, why are you here, in this hollow? – Markson clarified his previous statement – Are you here to question me about the events of yesterday? Because if you are, I won't apologize for killing that bastard – a grim shadow fell across his face – He wouldn't have told you anything anyway...

– I only came here to check up on you – Valery said simply, then shrugged – Besides, you shouldn't worry about that infiltrator's death. The charges of Byran accusing you of murdering an important suspect were dropped. You acted in self-defense; the Council couldn't have agreed more upon that.

– Good to know – Markson nodded, his words bitter, then looked away, and stayed silent.

The two owls stood like this for a few moments, until Valery tilted her head to the right, and stated her question: – What did you mean by that?

The ex-marshal turned his head back towards the female owl, confused: – What did I mean by what?

– The infiltrator. You said he wouldn't have told us anything, and you seemed to be awfully sure about that. Why? – Valery inquired in a calm voice, and kept her curious eyes on Markson's face.

The ex-marshal glanced at her, then quietly chuckled as he shook his head: – He was obviously from the world where I am from: he proved that with everything he said before he slit his own throat – Markson paused for a moment, then spoke his thoughts out loud – But you wouldn't understand any of it anyway.

To Chris' surprise, Valery laughed, then simply stated: – Humor me!

Reached by these words unprepared, Markson found himself unable reply anything smart to the Short-eared Owl; this hesitation was easily noticed by the female.

– I am not doubting you, of course. I don't know anything about your "world" – she said with a polite smile, but then her face turned more focused, more serious: – But that doesn't mean you should withhold any information that _could_ become useful in the future. And especially not from a member of the GHID. Also, I'm confident that you can give me an explanation if I don't understand something.

For a few seconds, Markson only just stared at Valery, then smiled and shook his head again: – Alright – he spoke with his eyes held firmly on the Short-eared Owl – He said that his name was "Kenneth Zwegger". Any parts of that name sound familiar? Do they use them in _this_ world?

Valery thought for a second: – No, not here, or in the Northern-Kingdoms. But tell me this, Markson – she tilted her head to the side – Why are there two names? The way you pronounced it, it sounded as if "Kenneth" and "Zwegger" are two separate parts of a name. Or am I wrong?

– No, no; that is the general system used in my world – Chris explained – You have a 'first name', or 'forename', that is usually the name you are called on, and you have your 'last name', or 'surname', that identifies which family you belong to. This is one of the reasons why it's obvious to me that he came from my world.

– I see – Valery nodded thoughtfully – Is there anything else?

– He claimed to have been the part of two organizations - or groups, teams - in the past, which are also from my world – Markson continued – The Navy SEALs, which is a special operations unit of the military in my country...

– "Country"? – Valery stopped Chris in the middle of his sentence – What's a "country", exactly?

– Like a... like a kingdom in this world, I guess – the ex-marshal explained in a short, swift manner, then continued – The other organization he mentioned, the FBI, or Federal Bureau of Investigation, is also from my country – at this point, Markson pointed at the Short-eared Owl with one of his talons, as if it was an index finger – Their job is very similar to your GHID's tasks.

Valery thought for a second, considering everything Markson just told her: – And all that proves that he is from your world, correct? – to this, the ex-marshal nodded – Any idea on why he would kill Bethany? If he indeed was from your world, the logical action for him would've have been to peacefully approach you and her to achieve a form of cooperation. But, instead, he killed Bethany... – said Valery, then she trailed off into her thoughts.

Markson was eager to take over: – And that wasn't just some random hit and run. If he truly was a Navy SEAL once, then he knew exactly what he was doing – Chris clicked with his beak, a thing he wasn't even aware he could do.

But in his mind, right now, there was no time for wondering about the unusual and different capabilities of his new form.

– Bethany was assassinated. Only Zwegger didn't expect one thing – Markson lifted a single talon, as if he just had a revelation – He didn't know that me and Latimer were coming to talk with Bethany. He was caught by surprise, his cover was blown, then he had to improvise – Chris listed – Only the latter didn't worked out for him that well – he added grimly.

– So, let's say that this whole murder was planned – joined in Valery – This Zwegger couldn't have been doing this for his own, personal reasons only; that would be illogical. Ah, for Glaux's sake! – she lightly stomped with a foot, then shook her head – What are we missing here?

– We are missing _you_ , Lance-Corporal, from an event that occurred ten minutes ago! – an unknown voice cut into their conversation, coming from the outside of this hollow, originating somewhere around the interior corridors.

Originally, Markson only thought that this voice sounded familiar: he could've sworn that he heard it in the past twenty-four hours. In fact, he found himself tying this voice to negative feelings - only he couldn't put a face to it.

However, a few seconds later, he didn't have to, because Byran, his face distorted by a smug grin and a pair of gloating eyes, slowly walked into Markson's and Valery's view, taking heavy steps and stopping directly in the middle of the hollow's corridor-side entrance.

The top of his head was covered by a blue beret almost exactly identical to Valery's, a grey, cowled cape occasionally brushing the floor behind him. Similarly to some of the other owls Markson saw around the tree, Byran also had a metal dagger with him, sheathed in a scabbard that was attached to the leather belt tied around his waist.

If there was one thing Chris hated in any of his old colleagues back at the TSA, it was the attitude of some: when a person carried themselves as if they were the champion of the world.

And right now, Byran was doing that: his stance, his tone... they all suggested that he considered himself to be superior over all.

When she saw Horned owl, Valery let out an annoyed groan: – What do you want, Byran? – she questioned, noticeably not pleased by the other bird's presence.

– Well... – the Horned owl raised a foot, and began to lazily study his talons, as if they were more worthy of looking at than Markson or Valery – Captain Bergheise sent me to find you, since it became obvious to her that you forgot about the duty she assigned to you.

– If you are referring to the meeting with the Legionnaires, they will not arrive until later this evening – Valery stated plainly, gesturing with her right wing as if it was an open palm.

– Oh, I'm sorry! – Byran retorted sarcastically – But guess what? Misinformation and inaccurate estimations do come around every now and then! – he continued, but once he saw the honest confusion on the Short-eared Owl's face, he 'rolled his eyes' by motioning with his head, then, in an impatient fashion, said the following – For Glaux's sake, Lance-Corporal, do I have to explain everything to you?!

– With all due respect, _Lance-Corporal_ – Valery reacted with her face still and as cold as steel – Maybe you are the one who isn't speaking too clearly at the moment.

Byran opened his beak for speech, and appeared to be ready to explode into a variety of swearwords and insults, all shouted rather loudly, of course. But he didn't do it.

Instead, he clamped his beak shut, took a deep breath, then, with a hateful look and a voice shaking from anger, spoke the following words: – What I so _clearly_ implied, is that those Legionnaires arrived earlier than originally expected, and have been waiting for you - _very_ impatiently, might I add - for the past ten minutes. What _you_ should do, is go down to the Southern Landing-Platforms, right now, and deal with those two idiots from Ambala. I've sure had enough of them for one night... – he said, finished with a complaint, and was about to swiftly leave the hollow on foot when Valery stopped him.

– Hey! – she raised her voice to get Byran's attention – Could you at least tell me what I'll be walking into down there? Whom did they capture anyway, someone who looks helpful? – Valery asked in a more neutral tone, not being aggressive, but not stepping on friendly terms with the Horned owl either.

– If you ask me, I would say they got the wrong owl – Byran answered in a relatively normal style – To me, she looked more confused and deranged than helpful... Kept babbling on about some visions and murders, I don't know – here, his eyes left Valery's face, and wandered towards Markson – Who knows, maybe it's another crazy owl, just like that... Bethany, or whatever her name was.

– Hey... – Chris started with a tone that immediately alarmed Valery, who stepped between the two before anything could have happened.

– Markson, leave him! – she ordered in a strict voice, but what convinced the ex-marshal were her eyes.

That was because the yellow glint of Valery's quick glance told him everything he had to know: "Leave him, Markson, he is not worth it!", they said.

Knowing that she was probably more than right, Barnes held himself back from saying anything further. If Byran was aiming to get a rise out of him, he was going to stay calm.

– And you, _Byran_! – Valery turned towards the Horned Owl now, her piercing eyes now narrowed to mere slits – You crossed a line. Get out of here and attend to your duties! – she pointed towards the corridor-side exit with a wing.

– Whatever you say, _Corporal_ – Byran shrugged after a moment of silence, then casually walked out of the hollow.

The echoes of his claws clacking against the wooden floor of the Great Tree's interior were audible for a few seconds, and then finally, to Valery's and Markson's greatest pleasure, they completely fell silent and disappeared.

– I've only known him for two or three days – Chris began – But I already hate that guy.

– Trust me, you're not the only one – Valery noted, then, simply forgetting about the irritating Horned Owl, turned to the ex-marshal – Alright, follow me.

– Wait, what? – Markson stared at the Short-eared Owl with genuine surprise, somewhat taken aback – Where are we going? Also, why?

– To the Southern Landing-Platforms, of course! – Valery looked at Chris like he just asked the most idiotic and illogical question in the world.

– Yes, _you_ are! That, I understand, but why am I coming? – he unfolded his wings in a questioning way.

– Now, despite all the racdrops that just came out of Byran's beak, he _did_ say something important, believe it or not – she spoke – He compared this owl the Legionnaires captured to Bethany, and that _may_ mean that she is a similar case, if not the exact same.

After a moment of thinking, Markson asked: – Are you thinking that this bird may also be a human from my world?

To this, Valery firmly nodded: – That is exactly what I'm thinking. So you should be there, talk with her, ask her questions that could prove my theory correct – then, her beak relaxed into a smile as she continued – Besides, Byran would hate to hear that you were involved in another one of the GHID's investigations – the Short-eared Owl added, then gestured with her head to Chris, requesting him to follow.

And as the ex-marshal walked after Valery, he furrowed his brows, and inquired in a non-serious style: – So, am I coming because you think I can be helpful, or because you want to see Byran annoyed?

Valery came to a halt as she stepped out from the hollow, and, from the outside corridor, turned her gaze towards Markson, and, with a light-hearted look, said: – Both. Now come on; walking takes a lot longer than flying, and it seems that I'm already running late.

– After you! – Chris waved politely with his talons.

Once again, the Short-eared Owl's strictness dissipated from her face as she let go of a light smile, turned to the left, and began to walk towards what the ex-marshal presumed to be their destination.

And Markson followed without delay, deeply hoping inside that this owl they were going to see would be able to answer the questions Bethany never had the time to solve.

Given that she _indeed_ was from Markson's world, of course.

 _Southern Landing-Platforms, Great Ga'Hoole Tree, Southern-Kingdoms_

 _Close to 8:12 p.m._

 _Markson, ex-TSA_

– You did _what_?! – the indignant screech of a female owl could be heard from somewhere that was out of Markson's visual range, two minutes after they left his hollow.

He raised a brow and stole a glance at Valery, but the Short-eared Owl didn't react in any way - she simply kept walking, and, in lack of a better action, the ex-marshal followed her.

A few seconds later, another shout echoed through night air, this time sounding from a somewhat closer vicinity: – Listen, I do not care what you _thought_ she did! How dare you take her into custody without a _solid_ reason?!

At this point, Markson couldn't withhold himself from asking: – Who is that? – he turned inquisitively to Valery.

The Short-eared Owl, as if she took the answer to be obvious, casually replied: – That's Captain Bergheise.

And, before he could ask any other questions, Chris saw what he now presumed to be the so-called 'Landing-Platforms': an outcropping of multiple wooden planks - similar to the ones he previously saw at the 'Grand Terrace' - assembled together into one massive platform. It extended a couple of meters outwards from the base trunk of the tree, it's view towards the night sky and the calm sea unobstructed by any branches.

Without much thinking, the ex-marshal understood the meaning behind the words 'Landing-Platforms': "Essentially, a runway for owls; even for me, that's painfully obvious", he defined the concept in his own head.

As the two have now neared their destination, Markson was able to visually confirm the source of the previously heard, two frustrated shouts.

Somewhere around the edge of the platform stood two owls: one with a blue beret, and one with a green beret; the former twice her own size, and the latter half his own size.

A few steps away from them, there was another pair of owls, although only one of them had a green beret. The other one, not wearing any form of a headress, appeared to be rather distressed.

Chris figured that she was probably the 'prisoner' Byran talked about.

– Well, are you going to come up with another excuse? Or are you just going to stand here? – the owl with the blue beret asked insultingly, her voice revealing her to be Captain Bergheise.

– Ma'am, with all due respect, I don't believe you understand our accusations, and, therefore, you miss the point of why we considered this owl's capture to be the correct action – the bird with the green beret, a Long-eared Owl, despite his intimidated posture, was making a rather cold-headed and desperate attempt to defuse the situation.

However, judging from the reaction of Captain Bergheise, all of it was futile.

– Oh, then by all means, please tell me why the detainment of this owl was necessary? An owl who hasn't been proved guilty of any crime? – she inquired with a tone which made it clear that no answer, no matter how sophisticated or well thought-out, was going to change her approach to the situation.

– As I've mentioned before, we found the dead body of her examiner and personal friend, Doctor Fredrick Finewing, right outside her hollow... – the owl with the green beret began, but shortly, was cut off.

Bergheise didn't even allowed him to reach the end of his sentence: – So if I murder someone right outside _your_ hollow, Sergeant Bartok, I should immediately suspect that _you_ are the murderer?

The owl with the green beret - or Bartok, by name - sighed, then shook his head: – No, Captain, of course not, but the circumstances...

– The circumstances change absolutely nothing, and that is the end of this conversation – Bergheise stated with an unshakable firmness – I hereby take over the custody of this owl, and, just so you know, immediately release her – she added and crossed her wings, signalling that this truly was the end of this discussion.

To this, Bartok's beak dropped open: – You can't do that!

– Of course I can! – Bergheise laughed – This murder may have occurred in Ambala, but the Guardians still have full jurisdiction over the Southern-Kingdoms when it comes to any form of crime. The final say in this case is _mine_ , not yours – she emphasized the last word by gesturing with her head directly at Sergeant Bartok – Now, you may pick up a few travel-rations from the Dining-Hollow, but that's not mandatory. Whatever you do, I want you to leave this island in fifteen minutes. I had enough of both of you for one day. Now get out of my sight – she pointed behind her back with a talon, then waited for Bartok and his companion - an unnamed Burrowing Owl - to take off, leaving their distressed prisoner behind.

Markson, seeing that they weren't heading towards the vast sea, assumed the owls instead decided to go to that other place Bergheise mentioned.

– Good Glaux, some Legionnaires these days! – she shook her head with a disappointed look, then turned towards the freshly arrived Markson and Valery – Lance-Corporal! Nice of you to show up! – she exclaimed, cheerfully; not quite in the way Chris expected.

Apparently, she wasn't angry at Valery for being late from the duty that was originally assigned to her; no, Bergheise was obviously full of joy at the sight of the Short-eared Owl.

– Captain – Valery quickly saluted with her wing – I apologize for being late, but the note said... – she began apologetically, but Bergheise just waved her down.

– I know, I know. Don't worry about it, you know how our scouts never get their estimations right – she frowned, then, with an interested facial expression, looked at the ex-marshal – Is this him? _The_ Silverbeak I've been hearing so many news about?

– One and the same – Valery smiled, barely able to withhold a chuckle.

– Captain Bergheise, GHID – the bird, whom Chris only now noticed to be a Snowy Owl, politely and officially extended her right set of talons.

– Silverbeak, although I personally prefer the name 'Markson' – the ex-marshal nodded, and shook Bergheise's talons.

The Snowy Owl in front of him was dressed in almost the exact same garments as Valery: the only differences were in the colours, and that Bergheise wasn't wearing a scarf.

Nonetheless, the clothes were of the same type and material: blue beret with a silver leaf-badge, white undershirt, and a cape of the same colour.

– I see, Markson – she tried out the word, then, a few seconds later, turned back to Valery – Let's get to the point, shall we?

– I agree – the Short-eared Owl nodded – What's the situation?

Bergheise signaled to Chris and Valery to follow her, and she began to walk towards the distressed owl: – Her name is Sylvya, _Glaucidium passerinum_ , barely a year old – she pointed with a wing towards the bird by the name of 'Sylvya' – The two idiots you just saw leave found her personal doctor's dead body outside of her hollow, and, as smart as they were, instantly assumed that she was the murderer. They entered her hollow shortly before nightfall, restrained her, sprained her wing rather badly, and brought her here for official questioning – at the last portion of her sentence, Bergheise shook her head – Needless to say, that's not going to happen. We will take her to the infirmary, have a healer check on her injured wing, maybe even keep her here for a few days if the sprain is that bad.

Chris looked at Valery expectantly, who replied with a knowing glance, then spoke: – I brought Markson along so that he could ask a few questions from Sylvya. He believes that her case might be similar to Bethany's.

Bergheise gave this a thought, and stayed in silence for the next few seconds; her eyes, although trusting towards the ex-marshal and Valery, showed some concern: – Very well – she said, then lowered her voice – But do mind that this poor owl has already been through a lot today. I give you the permission to ask her some of your questions, but _do not_ overwhelm her! – the Snowy Owl emphasized, her voice serious, but also full with honest caring towards the injured Pygmy Owl – She deserves a rest.

Then, as Bergheise finished with these words, she stepped over to Sylvya, slowly leaned down, and, with an almost uncharacteristically soothing voice, spoke to the both physically and emotionally damaged owl.

– Sylvya, my name is Captain Bergheise, I'm with the Ga'Hoole Investigatory Division. You aren't in any trouble, we are not accusing you of anything. The two owls from the Ambalan Legion are gone now, you don't have to worry about them anymore – she smiled in a warm and reassuring way, then pointed with her wing towards Chris and the Lance-Corporal – These two owls are Valery and Markson. They will take you to the Infirmary, so the healers there can take a look at your wing. Will that be okay with you? – she stated the question, then patiently waited for a response.

A few moments later, Sylvya, her whole body shaking, weakly raised her head, and, barely audibly, whispered: – Yes.

– Good, good – the Snowy Owl nodded encouragingly – We know you've been through quite an ordeal today. Go with these two, and I will arrange for someone to bring you a hot meal to the Infirmary, along with some milkberry tea.

Instead of answering with a word, this time, Sylvya just rapidly nodded.

Absolutely satisfied with this response, Bergheise now turned back to Valery: – You two know what to do. In the meantime, I will send a parchment to Colonel Barclay in Ambala, and ask him to educate his Legionnaires about the proper handling of suspects – and with this, she jumped off from the edge of the platform, caught the wind with her wings, then circled around the main body of the tree, eventually disappearing from their sight.

– Alright, Sylvya, we will have to walk, but that shouldn't take more than ten minutes – Valery was the first one to speak, putting a supporting wing around the Pygmy Owl's shoulder, keeping her quivering body steady – You will be able to get some rest soon.

– Thank you – Sylvya whispered gratefully, then stayed silent for the time they walked.

Markson stayed just a step or two behind, now truly wondering if this owl was also a human who crossed-over from his world.

Presently, he had no clear opinion on this question: but soon enough, he should be able to find out.


End file.
